


Remember the Comrades

by FamRoyalty



Series: brother, do you know me? [1]
Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Epic Bromance, F/M, Graphic Description, I haven't forgotten about this story i swear, M/M, Memory Loss, Overlord deserves more fanfiction, Slow Build, This is not a reader POV, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-09-27 08:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20404798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamRoyalty/pseuds/FamRoyalty
Summary: You came into the world choking on your esophagus, darkness embalming your eyes, and a bloody scream on your lips.You remember sometimes, of another time where you would be at the top of the world with cries of triumph rang behind you. And sometimes, you forget your name, your face, yourself.You were never supposed to exist.





	1. Do you hear me?

**Author's Note:**

> Though I am fairly new to the series of Overlord, anime, manga and novel, I'm not going on a high horse and say this won't have any flaws. I just started watching season 3, and have only been introduced to Overlord just a few days ago. 
> 
> So, if anyone has any knowledge they want to share and help me build this story up, it'll be greatly appreciated.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He dies. Dies when choking on his blood, his daughter's name on his lips, and a prayer to a dead god.
> 
> And a dead god answered his call.

You woke to a muffled scream, cramped muscles popping and adrenaline running, your arm hairs standing at attention, the scenery went like this; broken chairs, money have already been spend and sucked lifelessly, and your daughter is screaming.

Those are the scream that will haunt you, that will cling to your bones either dying here or in years of old wrinkles. It reminds you of a forgotten era where there were the screams of mothers gripping their corpse of her children and the world _cared._

You shot up from the empty bed. Its been cold, too cold and distant, and the only life being breathed through the halls is the ball of sunshine buried under the smog and poison air under the toxic clouds.

You shout her name, a rookie mistake, _don't you remember, son? _because she's the only thing you have now. 

There are men there, those who you been told by many again and again, _listen here, don't fuck with 'em. Got it? _He shouldn't have been so frustrated, because this is real life. This is no game, the gap of justice is dead.

His baby girl is shaking, sobbing and collapsing unto herself from the pressure of pure terror in her mind, the murderous atmosphere, and you want to _scream._

when you first saw injustice, you were in kindergarten for the wealthy, the nice, clean walls of _white_ and this big buffy bully named Brian. Brain with the nose freckles pulling on this tiny girl's hair, as she shrieked and cried. 

The teacher did nothing because his mother owns his degree and his home. So he turned his back and pretend not to hear the childish pleads of mercy. 

He decided he did not like Brian anymore.

The turbulent airflow choked and turned, like an untamed wave, causing the palate of his throat to be coated with blood and saliva. The men were beating him with bats, chairs, anything their hands reached and grabbed.

Your daughter— so beautiful and so bright —isn't crying anymore. His ears are ringing from the impacts, heartbeat, and blood rushing in sync. 

You close your eyes and pray to a dead god.

The men leave, already taken everything they wanted, never needed, and you suddenly find it very hard to breathe. You patrolled the streets, you seen bodies lined up in rows looking exactly like you right now, and you mourn your daughter.

She will be an orphan, and you'll never meet the woman she could be.

They locked you in the spared storage room, purposely away from the furthest door and from your daughter. Dust is sticking to your lungs you realize. 

You have the strength to maybe get up and do _something_ before you collapse with your lungs pierced from the mass weight placed on top of it.

The only thing is your salvation is the old headset that had the dents, marks and the history to show it.

Maybe a goodbye note to your daughter to say what? So sorry, I'm dead. Take care!

It takes a long time to actually put the gear on, the power source still so reliable— like his team, when has he forgotten about them? After he got married? The birth of his angel? 

It loads. And loads. And loads.

You know you don't have much time anymore.

You feel it in your bones, the old wariness that you carried on the cold streets when you heard the screams of terror or the bodies of the suicidal littered throughout. 

It's in your skin, deep and hidden. There when you first took your breath and the steps and the spoken word, there when life is and there when life was.

You mourn, but you look up in your headset, and you know no boundary. 

You click randomly, the old veteran already leaving his knowledge behind as you just slump on the dusty floor, withering and dying not fast enough. 

Then darkness.

You can actually _feel_ his lungs rattling, a sound so surprisingly familiar that it shocks him, and you can feel your muscles starting to become heavier and heavier.

The hum of the gear is also so familiar that it brings you some comfort in your last moment.

Maybe you should just rest—


	2. See no evil, speak no evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up, a silent scream on you lips, disortient an reaching for anything that may resemble life.
> 
> You wake up, a silent scream on you lips, disortient an reaching for anything that may resemble life.
> 
> You wake up, a silent scream on you lips, disortient an reaching for anything that may resemble life.
> 
> You wake up.
> 
> Wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"My faith lies in the god that rules and presides over magic. But if you are not that exalted being, then I shall immediately recant my faith, for the one true god has finally appeared before me."_  
\- Fluder swearing his loyalty to Ainz Ooal Gown.

You wake up, a silent scream on you lips, disorient a reaching for anything that may resemble life.

This is what it should have happened: Wake up dead. Wake up dead with a number laser-stamped into the meat of your tongue. That number is lost through the papers in corruption. Your brain lights up, the insides of your skull unfolding into the bone-bowl of your cranium.

There would have been candles, hollowed prayers, and an orphan. Instead:

Awareness is a needle of gear -- a penetrating into the lizard core of your brain and delivering a shock wave that liquefied any reasonable conscious. It fires a series of electrical pulses into the deadened folds of your brain and for those seconds of life, memory fire up and you open your eyes and --

You wake up, a silent scream on you lips, disorient a reaching for anything that may resemble life. You'll Immediately and violently go into cardiac arrest. Your heart -- heavy, jackknifes in your chest and seizes. Scream. Scream for the whole 10.863 seconds that you’re alive.

Scream like an animal being gutted alive -- the flayed roadwork of your veins pulsing with a toxin to any living thing. You cannot feel, your face is a bulky box and something is covering your mouth. Reaching down, down, down, gag around the obstruction as your heart stops completely.

  
Step three: Die again.

Instead, you wake up, a silent scream on you lips, disorient a reaching for anything that may resemble life. There's nothing but literal depression, like swimming in a thick soup of nothingness.

In the year 2126, a Dive Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game or DMMO-RPG called YGGDRASIL was released. It stands out among all other DMMORPG's due to its unusually high ability for the player to interact with the game.

Some view the company's virtual game adapter as a brilliant frontier, others as a bizarre hardware kludge.

You wake up to fail to comprehend what’s happening to you. Why there's black inside your head and eyes, and white one every fiber nerve, every molecule and cell of your body that's has been drowning in gasoline, and someone dropped a lit match.

Your lower intestines are looping like in an abstract painting, rubber tubing circling each other and it's suffocating to no end or beginning.

Your bones are cracking in their housings of muscle roped too tight into your skeleton. You are aware of the bones in your skull, of your teeth rooted in your head -- you are aware of them because they _hurt_.

Hurt beyond, it aches and aches. And you want to die. Your eyes burn with tears and you don’t know why. You don’t understand anything, anything you had grasped slipped through your fingers. You only understand that your body is a slab of mass, blood, and bone and you’re trapped inside of it.

Become frightened by these noises that echo through, and it takes a whole minute to realize those noises are coming from you. 

You want to take solace—a comfort—in something solid, something familiar that your brain will categorize and label and identify with. To feel something physical that isn't pain.

Time is abstract, fluid and without restrictions. Wake up suspended horizontally beneath the glow of magic beyond logic. 

Outside the strange suspension, greenish-blue squares and rings pulse gently, numbers codes running through the air in ribbons of holo-light, ringing and surrounding you. Codes.

They're meaningful. Important. Crucial. _why._

Become aware of voices, muffled, but becoming clearer. Someone is standing over you tapping and skimming the hard lights, mumbling nonsenses under their breath.

  
“The rings are spiking,” says someone, too close, too _close,_ “He’s coming around.”

  
“Well, it looks stable.”

  
“Obviously, it was Master—"

"Silence!" 

  
You must breathe. Suck another lungful of shards that are cutting ribbons in your lungs. Inhale again. The lukewarm meat of your lungs inflates and deflates inside you. You breathe until your eyes roll back in your skull and every muscle in your body prickles with pins and needles.

_You shouldn't be breathing._

Your lips, toes, and fingers numb instantly.

  
“Rejoice! We do not need to chain ourselves to the moral chains no longer! Fear doesn't know this name, for we have become something greater than mere mortals!

We have conquered _GODS!" _

Excited whispered broke through the placid silence.

  
“Hail Fluder Paradyne!"

"I cannot believe we actually did it!"

  
The so peculiar lights and codes become a mere send thought, as they begin to recede --You feel a flat platform beneath you, your body settling on a cold floor. It's too rough, grinding to your sensitive flesh, gripping and breaking the surface. 

There is a blue light overhead, many fluorescent lights floating around your view. You still can’t move. Your body is too heavy. You also become so crystal clear of the heavy chains surrounding you, your chest expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting. People in long robes and mirrored stands and wearing white masks are standing over you.

You can hear them. You can follow them with your eyes which are wide open.

  
“Should he be doing that?”

  
“Doing what?”

  
“He’s looking right at me.”

  
“Don't worry, The Master Sorcerer already conquered a literal God! There's nothing to fear here."

In the year 2126, there was an empty date in your calendar and for once you gave decided to spend something on yourself. You went and bought a DMMO-RPG called YGGDRASIL. 

Some call it back luck, _you must have pissed someone off in your previous life, _and some call it a fool errand. You thought you made peace with it, you no longer needed something as trivial as that to keep you company. But the brotherhood forged never restored itself In your life again.

One of your maybe kidnappers grips your shoulder while another one-- how many are there? Where are you? Who--holds your head and the man with the white hair, and such a long beard slowly your face towards him.

  
"Monster,” says the old man softly when you begin to retch by reflex, when you twitch, jerking, your body flexing in on itself, every hair follicle tightening until goosebumps prickle across every inch of your bare skin.

The touch is posion, toxic spreading throughout underneath your skin, and muscles, sweeping into your veins and sinking their teeth into your bones. 

He does not stop 

" You are a creature that represents this world? Are we all this twisted? Tell me something _god." _

  
You vomit immediately after, a sluice of white chunks that smells of ammonia and rot and the stench makes you vomit again. You retch over and over until your eyes water and your stomach cannot possibly convulse on itself again, until your throat cannot possibly burn and ache anymore, until the terrible rattling growl of your breathing hitches into labored moaning and the silence in the room is deafeningly total -- broken only by his voice.

"Does this mean we're gods now?

The gray-eyed man takes off his gloves. He lays a bare hand against your face, his palm to your temple and he says, “We'll conquered this rotten world together.” His skin is warm and dry, his thumb against the dome of your forehead stroking you.

You mourn and beg, rage and swing within your eyes. You want to break the cold chains, you see stars under your eyelids, so fold them and pray to a dead god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thanks for stopping by and reading whatever the hell I wrote up there. Also, I have finished season 3, and holy fucking hell. 
> 
> I have mourned and cheered all in one episode and its a roller coaster. I love it.
> 
> I also found the manga, but does anyone know where the best place is to read the light novels at?


	3. Glory to thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is a foreign liquid that sweeps between your mind and hides under your nails. You don't understand much, you can remember the smell of artificial oranges and the blue pixelated sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, how was the last chapter? A side note here, we should make a new religion to Wiki for all its usefulness. Really, it helped me more than it knows.
> 
> Also, I had accidentally published this chapter before it was ready. So if you saw that, my bad. And it's my birthday today too. Yay!
> 
> (ง •̀ω•́)ง

You wonder if this is the afterlife.  
  
  
  
Because, here, here Time is liquid. Its an illusion and smoke mirrors, the chains around you are the reality you're grounded on. There is no cycle to count and the pain and phantom aches feel too real for the afterlife.  
  
  
  
When you first met Koharu, you were still around your house playing and fooling around in a boundless world with no limits on your creativity.   
  
She was, well how to describe the indescribable? _Timeless_, if she was plucked from the river of time, forever smooth and beautiful. Her long raven chair carelessly fell like a smooth waterfall, always moving with her.   
  
She was always so _restless_, must be moving, here and now, where's your rhythm? Always playing sports, cheering loudly, wailing when the dog in the movies got hurt, making those exaggerated movements whenever she was in a foul mood.  
  
_The love for life_, she said one day. Both were together in bed, and neither wanted to be the first to leave the warm. _Is what you are to me, not the love of my life. _  
  
She was the first to leave the bed.  
  
  
  
They ask you what you remember.  
  
  
Here is what you remember: The smell of morning coffee. The small bump against your hand on someone's stomach. Someone kissing you goodnight, picking and running your fingers through different colors-- light pink. How to work with the type-four sword. The difference between different dragons. The habitable planets that make up the Solar System-- an unfathomable number of codes, cheats, and lore laid out in your mind.  
  
  
But what do you remember, they ask?  
  
  
How to make nana's chocolate cake, how to disarm and destroy an opponent that stands over seven feet tall, where to find the best loot and re-wire a car. How to ride the sub from the station all the way back home. What vanilla ice-cream tastes like. What blood tastes like. How to build a rocking chair, the color of the Ocean, the smell of cut orange, how to —  
  
  
But what do you remember?  
  
Pieces.  
  
  
  
What else?  
  
Parts.  
  
  
  
You study the floor, dark grey with white chalk runes and symbols your brain is struggling to put a name on, it's all surrounding you. You forget many things. You also remember someone.  
  
  
A figure. A blur. A voice shouting, a hand on your wrist, the smell of coffee and the taste of your own blood. The vastness of the room they keep you in has begun to bother you -- the sensation that everything is slightly too big for you -- their questions, your skin over your skeleton as heat and restlessness builds inside you like pressure in a canister.  
  
  
  
You wake up with hot tears spilling from your eyes and spreading down your cheeks. They have put a gag around you, covering half of your face, if you were some sort of animal.  
  
If _you_ were the foul beast of the horror movies, those meant to be kept away from society and be locked away in a cage while the innocent cheered from being safe from the monster.  
  
It's such irony you, chained and caged, that always preached and praised Justice for the weak and innocent when you can't even help yourself.  
  
Ulbert would have crackle and roll on the floor if he saw you.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yuna was their creation, the last living statement that leaves the impact of _we were here, and we loved each other_ that screamed to the void.  
  
She, so very much like her mother, she too is very restless.  
  
  
  
( _you also wonder that is happening to your angel. You vigorously refuse and block out any other thoughts of her mangled body, twisted and contoured with her skin pulled and broken_— )  
  
  
  
She plays with dolls, those with wheat color hair, and bright pink dresses, and that's the most color the outside world has seen. Her favorite flower is daisies, white and small, so very fragile just like her.   
  
She would sit by the artificial window and trace the stars above the darken the smoked sky. She would dance and sing her silly songs with her mom, as she rolls her heels and squeals in childish delight.   
  
  
  
You want to remember her like that.  
  
  
  
"Wake up. Your use has come."   
  
Another hooded man, this time he was alone with the old man, strange for every time you open your eyes to the cold reality, you always find yourself surrounded by a ring of kneeling men and women, praying to an entity.  
  
You always remained suspended in the air, you feet-- hooves? Claws? You can't tell, you can't feel them anyway.  
  
Your body is strange too, you can feel your face, your lips tingling, and your eyes watering, but never your body.  
  
Look at your hands. You’ve got your elbows braced against your knees, your hands clenched slightly in front of you. How many times have you looked at your own skin now? Floating there staring down at yourself, trying to figure out the roadmap of hard tissue and keloid scarring that crisscrosses your skin.  
  
  
Your fingers are scarred with long dark cuts -- long since healed -- that track up the back of each digit to the knuckle. They are strong like wide and heavy, those ideally for carrying swords. The underside of your wrists appears to have been laid open -- you wonder and wonder, where these little scars come from, some are just fused flesh that never properly healed and the thought strikes you that those look very, very old.  
  
That worries you.  
  
  
“Do you know who you are?” says The Supreme Sorcerer. Its what many people call him in hushed awed tones whenever the old man walks even a meter of their vision.  
  
  
They make you sit on the floor, with the heavy chains pooling around you, and order you not to stand while they speak to you. The order you to do a lot of things these days. There is a desperation in you, you know, not to disappoint her. It’s not fair, this desperation. Because if they disappear, those that mean you'll disappear too? Would you forever be alone, chained and caged in this room?  
  
  
You still can’t talk.  
  
  
  
The old man leans close. So close you smell the breath in his mouth, can see the pores in his nose and the craze in his eyes.   
  
"You are a gift. Wrapped and prized for the Emperor. Nothing else. Behave or you'll know real misery."   
  
  
  
Close your eyes and pray to a dead god.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
This is not what you had expected the outcome to be. You expect to be dragged out by your hair and skin, to be cut open and spilled over the feet of a ruler that demanded the blood of ancient gods to be served as grandiloquent wine.

Not this.

This is what happens. You are, for the first time you can consciously remember, taken to a shower. Abiet, it was more of getting splashed with water and getting your top layer of skin scrapped off with a scratchy cloth.

You are clean enough to be put in the feet of the emperor. 

The chains are still there, a heavy remainder that this is real and you'll die, and feeling more and more like a balloon tied to a child's finger as you are dragged around. Suspended from the floor, as if your very feet will taint the soil.

The emperor is young.

Looks so much fucking younger than you feel, with unblemished skin and cold eyes. You imagined an older man, wary from life, or crazed with bloodlust. You don't know what to make of him.

This is how it happens: Three people are constantly circling you, hands folded in prayer and three more are there to keep you in the prison made of air around you.

They put a blindfold over you, with heavy leather and you feel alive. 

The sun is sinking into your skin since leaving, and it goes straight through, the stale air suddenly becomes so much cleaner, lighter and the sounds you have associated with life have been flipped. Its like turning on everything that was offline for the first time.

You're taken in, and even in the new room everything feels alive.

"So this is the supposed god?" Maybe a prince, someone nobel who is close to the emperor and is in his favor light. 

Exhaustion is an constant companion, here or in IRL, because it slowing draws you in, like pulling on a thread of a sock so slowly you don't notice until now. Its your companion that wraps itself around your shoulders and hums a lullabuy.

"Why is it blindfolded?" 

"Ah, well. Its eyes hold ancient power that we have yet to understand. Its for your personal--" 

"Take it off." 

A sharp intake, nervous shuffling of feet. "Are-- Are you sure, my emperor? Its gaze--" 

"Why must I repeat myself? Take. It. Off. "

Silence, before the same man starts to mumble and soon a bright light is shinning through--

White blinds your world, for so long you have been kept in the dark, locked away from any light, that even in a covered room, the mere presences of light, makes red bloom behind your eyelids.

You close your eyes and pray. 

"Open your eyes." 

You don't want to. It calls to memory when you always hid from your dad whenever he came home, and your mom would always pinch you if you didn't do what the man said.

You open your eyes.

There's a whirlpool of colors dancing with each other, soft colors from the sun rays of the windows to the harsh contrast between the gold and velvet red. 

And _his eyes._

"So, you're my pet now? It seems legends don't hold up to you." Legends? Does it tell of ravenous monsters raging through poor villages? Is this why you're locked away?

"Does it even speak?" 

A man steps from behind, "It did for the first night, but has fallen silent since, your Highness." 

Did you? You don't even remember anymore. 

The young emperor leans closer from the throne, a viper smirk becoming clearer. "Well then, can you tell me my future? Hm? Or perhaps what are my consequences of killing a god." 

A hushed noise escapes you, a huff almost, as people gathered around you shift in morbid curiosity as what could happen.

Would fire rain from the Heavens? To cleanse and bring a new age for the sinful acts against nature itself for enslaving a god? Or would the rivers convert into blood to thrist the land from its prosperity to starve away the people? 

You bring your head up from your chin, your neck so sore and painful for holding out for so long. You look at the young, so foolish, emperor and wonder if this is hell. 

_"I. Am. No. God. " _

The old man steps foward, a mad expression morphing his aged face. "Insolence! I have personally created that summoning! Decades, nay, _centuries_ of hard work and intelligence for this?!" 

The emperor brings his hand up, but chaos is already descending the minds of the weak. 

You open you mouth, it feels like the sand rolling in your tounge, as you say a final note. 

"Kill. Me. Mercy, and _kill me."_

The emperor snaps its gaze at you, a endless void you could lose yourself in. 

A wicked smile.

"No, I don't think I will." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the plot will pick up pace.


	4. Brothers in arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You dream sometimes. Sometimes you are in bed, distant spunds of the world at large, with arms wrapped around your middle and bliss.
> 
> Sometimes you dream of an open blue sky, monsters of legends and laughter with many shadows and blurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for actually stopping by and all. This is where the plot actually starts to move in a solid direction.

Human's minds were not meant to stay in a loop for constantly long periods of time. Because time here is your enemy, it consumes you, filling every fiber and atom of this body. 

Sometimes you don't dream. It's an enormous void, blank and dark. 

Sometimes you don't remember sometimes. It's an empty sheet. 

Sometimes you remember this: When you came back home, your bones aches and moaned caged inside your body as you would collapse to the sheer pressure of gravity. It took your shoulders and hanged there as you dragged it across your back.

You know how the drench of smoke, the polluted air, just sticks to you like a cheap perfume. How your nose, no matter how long you been outside, always clogged up and you ended with a nasty taste in the base of your tongue.

Reality is often cruel and merciless, it drains the energetic, calls for the suicidal, and beats itself from you. 

You open your eyes again, this time you are in the foot of the steps, always suspended always surrounded, as you watch from the sidelines the commotion around you. Aides and messengers run around carrying scrolls and papers, busy like those bees in documentaries late-nights.

The ignorant man that calls himself now God of Magic, is pacing and murmuring the same nonsense spoken around you. 

There's a name spoken and your chains waiver. 

When you came home, dragging your feet, filthy from the air, you always enjoyed the layer of protection. There's something exciting and _alive_ spoken and done under your roof. Not alive in the sake of breathing, eating, and shitting. No, not that lifeless cycle. Here you were free to bask away from the toxic flames of pollution of the outdoors and sift through the dense layer of smog shifting in the sky.

You were back from patrol, another mindless task that required you to not speak and be obedient. You could still vividly recall on your first day, you were jumped from behind by your fellow colleagues, merely to "teach" you the rope of the latter. 

You still hoped to climb the ranks, follow the written code of _justice_. Weak are protected by the strong, the blind judge only listens to facts and weights the trails. Now, most things are measured by the weight of your pocket. You being a mere clog in the machine.

When you are finally given some time to plant your feet on solid ground, your body collapsed. It reminds you of the old documentaries of Astronauts coming back from a voyage. Gravity takes its claws into your calves and bones, dragging its tendon through your skin.

"Hey, Touch! You ready for this?!" You open your eyes to a blur standing a meter away from you. You should be alarmed, this is not where you left or where you even remember, but this shadow mere presence is enough to put you at ease.

You give them a broad grin, and boast;

"You bet! Let's go and kick ass!" 

You don't remember that much anymore, it stalks you and strikes during the most unexpected times. You were lifeless suspended, all the time really, when it suddenly stroke you, you could not recall your wife's face.

Oh, but you remember her tracing your chest, and leaving behind the trail of unfinished sentences. When you dip her during a dance, the color of her dress as it twirls around her. When she whispers teasing in your ear, it is the color of her lips. When you make pure love, it is the trace you want her to leave all over your body.

And when you see her in your bedroom with another, the color of your breath comes out crimson, and when you scream at the top of your lungs, it is the color that pierces the atmosphere.

When you look in her eyes for the last time, it is the fading color of your heart falling to your knees. 

"Are you sure of the---"

". . . . And the nobles will be. . "

"Don't be absurd now! We'll be--" 

".... Protect? What absurdity!" 

Conversations always surround you, a contact buzz of background noise twirling around your ear. Its a welcomed change from the numbing silence. Where you could hear your breathing so loud, you even wonder if that's all you'll ever hear. One that drags you slowly in a dance, spins you around and around until somewhere along the way, you had lost your sanity.

Yes, it's a welcomed change.

But it doesn't mean it doesn't get annoying.

You're like a painting, a nice view to admire and criticize, but a background drop. Useless, and just used for filling blank spaces in the wall. 

Oh, he's just another pretty painting, one that needs shackles and constant motoring. 

You weren't perfect, you were a shit human who couldn't even do the job they were meant for, just letting injustice breed within, contaminating the roots and rotting it from the inside out. 

In fact, what you were a _disease_. 

Everything you touched, your wife, co-workers, even family. But like any disease, there was a cure, albeit a temporary one, where he could log on and mindlessly wander the land. 

There he could execute true justice without the immovable blocks of higher-ups or the crime-ridden streets. A way to actually do something, do wave his power for one and for all. Just how pathetic.

People were talking too much. 

Whispers were always spoken, at all hours, at all seconds, not one millisecond wasted in silence. 

It was **_maddening_**.

There was a constant, a disease, that just spread and spread and spread. He wants the silence again, he can't even hear the soft sounds of the outside world anymore. No horse hooves on cobble, or the footsteps of maids and servants. 

Just fucking prayers after _prayers_.

You just want this to _end_.

To end. You want this To eNd now. Because yOu wAnt tO rEsT. Can't someone <strike>help</strike>? WHat Did yUo even do?! YOu are _**INNOCENT**_. The m̛̕a͘y̷ ̕͜n̵҉o҉͞t́͟ ͟͠l̀i̶̛ve͢ ͜͞t̕o͢ ͠s̷̷͜e͞ę̵ ou͏̧r̸͢͞ ̷g͠͏ļ͞ǫ͝r̵̀͜y̧-̵͜͠"͘͞ Strong _are_ supposed to _**PROTECT**_ THE WEAK m̛̕a͘y̷ ̕͜n̵҉o҉͞t́͟ ͟͠l̀i̶̛ve͢ ͜͞t̕o͢ ͠s̷̷͜e͞ę̵ ou͏̧r̸͢͞ ̷g͠͏ļ͞ǫ͝r̵̀͜y̧-̵͜͠"͘͞ ҉̢͘"̸̡́I͟ ̴̀̕a͏̢͞m̷ ̡͘n҉ǫ̴t̸͠ t́h̕͞͠r̵̶͡o̴w̧i̴̕n̶͠g͏̴̛ ̀a͢ẁa͜y̴̶̨ WHY YOU?? ̧́"̵́͠W̛͏͡e̸͘͠ ̸̀g͏҉o̕͝t͜ ̀͟͝t҉o͜ s̴̨͢t̵̸͢o̷̢p ͘th͏̷͏ȩ͢͟m ̵an̛͞d̷̸ WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WRONG?? ̨͞"̴-͠L̢e͘͟͠t̛'̶̛̀ś͢ ̷ś̕͘t̸҉̕ę̵a̡l͜҉ ̢͡t̷he͏̛i̶͜͞r̛ ͏̶ _**JUSTICE**_. WHERE IS JUSTICE? IS IT DEAD? "s̡̠̘̦͙̤͇̙̹̳̣̠̮͈̘̘̩͍͢ͅh̷͕͕̪̬̱͉͙͉̖͙̭̠̦͜͝͡i̧͍̺̫̫̜̣̖̗͉̳̗̩͖̝͘͜ţ̘̟̖̗̘̟͟h̝̮̠̤̳̮̭͍̭̳͘͠͡e̸̸̢̘̯̘̩͎̭̥͈̘̟̠̲͍͙̠͟a̷̧͉̹̙̹͈̮͓͍̫̝͎̦̱̻͈͟d͏̢̡̖̲̦̠͝s̻͉̲̮͈̣͖͇͎͈̤̗̤͇͟͞ ̵̩̦̹̖͚̖̪͉͡w̵̸̵̰̮̱̥͈͚̟̗͟i̵̛̫̩̗̫̯͜t̷̢̧̧̘͉̜̟͉̤͎̳̩̠̺͍̙̣͉̱̻̦̙͠h̡̹͓̪̜͍̠̬͇͍̥͉̕͢ ̴̛̹̥̳̝͓t̰͇̞̺͕̬̼͉͘h̘̫̠̖̮̣̦̥ḛ̰͉̤͖̲̼̮̝͖͟į͘͡͏̖̖̳̠͓̜̦̬̰̥̗̯̬̪͉̩͇̼͔r̸̸̦̩̝̫̜̥̟͕̝͎̝͎̝̕ ̱̻̪̻͘͝ķ͕̪̩̰̖̣͚̭̼̯̠̭̥̬͈̯͟ͅh͇̺̠̜̗̼͇͕͙͚̲͘͜a̡̕͘͏̗͇͖̫̺̮͍̪͇̰͓͢ḳ̵̶̶̛̬͔̮̩̪͍͡ͅi̷͕͕̪͚̖̹̜̣̼͖̟̕͜͢ ̝̲̼̲̞̼̲͕̺̬̲͓͠͞s̨͈̣͈̰̖̖͉̞͡h̴̨͉̳͎̭̘̫̟̮̭̲͟͢ͅo̴̸̧̝̪͙̪̲̞̣̻̙̙͓r̷̶̳͉͈̗̗͙̞͖͖̺̳̩̠̰̕̕t̞͍̞̗͎̳̱͚̫̺̞̹s̝͖͉͈̫̬̤͇͕͟͠ ̛̘̠̖͈͓͕̹̞̟̻̤̫̤a͈͍͈̖̥̠͟ͅṉ̡̨̧͇̤̹͔̲͕̜̖̤̤̭̜͈͚̰̕͢ḏ̷̷̟̦͈̠̪͔̥̠̯͈̺̲̪̖͔̯͖͠ ̢̣͙̖̩̤͘s̷͎̟̦̬͎͈̳͚̳͜͜ḩ̞͚̖̜̗̱̤̘͉͍̺̥͟͞͞͡i̡͏̡̯͍͈̯͠͞t̬̤͍͚̰͈͝͝ ̷̸͓̫̣̜̭̟̠̤̠̼͎͜ͅa̵͘͞҉̝̠͇̤̫̝̩̖͝r̷̥͓͕͓͔̟̜͈̗͎ͅę̡͜͏̳̰̥͉͙̪͖̲̻̖͙̩͖̝̩͔͉̦ͅ ̴̨͙̯̥̮̗̮̜̹̟̯͕̫͚̤̦͖̯͜t̵̠̹̣͚̗̳̥̜̦͎̩͜h̨͝҉̡̘͖̺͔̹͇͕̜̼̲͎̖̜͉͈̭ͅe̮͖̱̟̞̻͖̩̜̣͉͈̝̭̣͈̩͉͔͘ ̸̖̰̟͚͚̥̼̠̮̗̱͔̦͍̦̯͟͟͠ͅo҉͉͔̝̪̭̰̮͓̩̼͡n̼͓̖̘̼͖̜͙̜͔͈̦̰̥͞l͏̸̛҉̛̩͓̯͚̬̣̺̱͚̯͕̰͈ỵ̷̫̮̬̙̞͍͉̪ ̶͏͚̯̟̮̻̩͈̲̗̯̜̪̦̘̫͢ͅt͏̶̣̫̝͍̞̫̫̲͇̠ͅͅh̸̨̟̲̳̙̦͇͕̭̺̟̰̻͢i̸̩̙̼͙̱̺̦̺̘̘̗͓ͅͅn̛͚͚͓̖̲̞͞g͖̝͍̘̪͔̲͚̗̞͈̼̮̼̯͖̻͝ ̰̟͓̝̲̝͚̬̰̱͙̙͉̼͘͞ͅs̷͘͏̡̦̘͈͉̩̥͖̯̫̰̳͙͈͡t͟͡͏̥͉̞͖̖͓̬a̴̧͙͍͍̤͉̮̣̫͈̘̩̘͝͝ņ̢͓͎̩̗͙̠d̸͇͈̖̞̦̘̝͙̟̼͝ͅͅi̶̢͔̘̺̪͉̮͍̰̬̼̯͉̗̣͖̘̹̫͢ņ͍͚͖̹͈̞̰̭̤͝ģ̵̸̟̳͈̜͚͓͚͙̻̗̺̰̗͓̲͘ͅͅ ̨̛͙̪̠͓̗̱̰̤̣̟̕͢͡i̡̬̹̝͍n͙͍̼̫͝͞ ̴̣̮͕̪̺̟̠̙̗̻̰̝̗̗͞b̢̜̝̤͠e͏̷̝̱̪̫̮t̵͍̥̻̼̻̗͚̹̼͇̯͇̭̪̲̞̥͉͜͡w̴̜̯̗e̱̩̘̳͎̫͔̞͉̹͇̯̻̘͞ḛ͈̠͉̟̗͍̱̝̜̖͢n͉̼̻̼̰ ̷̴̨͍͖̼̖̥̟̗̹̺͍̼̬͖̝̟̥͠m̡͚͇͙̳̫̜̘̦͖̤͕̬̦̟̘͟e̶̲͍͓̖̥̖͘ ̴̵̪͚̱̺̺͖̙̟̦̰͔̗̦̺͇̙̺͜͠a̶̛͎͈̱͖̣͎͙̜͟͞n҉̶̳̳̣̦͔͍̠̤̟̥̯͇͟ḑ̵͎͇͎͈̜̱͓̻̟̻̟͚̰͖ ̵̴̶̮͖̯͕̯͇̯̮̗̝̬̳̼̟͘t͇͔̟͓͇͎̻͙̖̹̞͍̭̞̪͖͎̟̪̕͠ḩ̶͔̱͚̼̤͈̣̠̺̕͜͝ę̷̱̟̮̪͜͝ ҉̨̡̟͓̺̳͇̻̜̣̜̘̝̹̲͡ͅf̴̢̢͈͚͕̣̮͔̦̞͎̟̗̣̬̫̳̼̥͠u̴̡͝҉̺̬̳̫̫̪͈͇͙͉͕̝͇͘c̴̪̥͙̝͜k̡̧̮͎̰̪͓̦̝͘͠i̵̻̜̺̻͞͞n̞͕̲͙̠̫͕̖̠̰̲͘g̡̡̬̣̻̝̮͉̻̪͇̰͢͜ ҉̘̲̳̻̞̞͍̜̹̫̩̥͚̼̲͚̼̘h̵̡̘̠̹̰̞̞͙̱̬̳̰̠͞o̴͜͏̮͚̳̟̬̻̤̣̝̦̮̖̥̹l͡҉̛͜͏̞̬̗͈̫̮̗̖̲̭̜̠̲̦̭̪̮̙y҉̷̡͓͓̗̬̜̖͔͉̳͍̟̳̯͝͞ ̷̰̼͈͇̙͞ͅͅg͏̵̵̪̤̘̯͓̤͉̝̠͖̪͞ͅr̶̢̛̩͍̙̦̘͔͔͞ą̴̭̗̖̙̤͓i̧̫͕̹̼͍̹̲̘̟͞l͏͏̛͉̭̮̗͚̱͉̼̩̜͇̝̖͖͉̳͠ ̡͍̳̗̱̗̤̹͎̝̯̙͉͘o̦͍̜̘͕̦̜̳̪̯̗̬͙̗͚̰͙̯͇͟f̧̨̻̰̙͞ ̛̯̠̭̬̰̦͖̣̼͇̝̰̮̟͕̗̳͘͘ͅp̺͔͕̠͖̞̯̟̰̭̮͢͡i̪̞͔̠͉͈̣̺̱͘͘ͅz̗̭̝̪̼̖͈̬͎̬̪̖͠͠z҉҉̤̫̺̖̫͕̳̰̻̥̙͙͎ͅͅͅa̡͚̣̟͉̱̟̬̞̰̗͓͓ͅͅ ̸̸̧̫̖̣̗c̶̸̢͏̞̫̝̗͖̗̼̘͠o͓̭̫̭̟͚̙̜͍͖͚̺̫͙͖̳̕n̵̵͏͓͔̩̞͚͔͉̦͝v̸̛̯͎̙̺̫̕͢͜ȩ̛͎͇̠̩̯̺͍̹̗̟͔̹̙̦͕̞̝͕͝n̡̞̞̱̫̟̖̠̭̘̞͉̲̱͇͈͉͕͟i̶̢̱̰̩̘̯͇̝̖͉̹͈̩̗̕͜e҉͠͡͏̜͕̬͎̤͙͇̪̠̫͠n͝͏̵͏̭̹̩̮̣̱c̵̴̵͜҉̜̞̤̳̠e̶͏̶̢͎͓̘͓͍̣̣͖̠͡?̸̡͏̩̪̝̺͖ ̶̛̕͞͏̣̰͍͓ Ţ̘͓̥͉̜̳̩̰̜͉̥̪̭̋ͯ͒́͗̓ͦ̂͐ͬ͠ͅh̝̪̼̮̦̼̤͚͎͓̬̼̺̺̫̲̀̈̂̿̅̏̏ͣͩ̕͟͞e̷͎̤͈̥̜̥̤͇̱̯̺̪͒̌͛̉ͤ̐̓ͤͩ͋͗̑̚͢͠͞ ̶̖̞̫̺͇͍͉̤͈̥̼̩̣̗̮̪ͣ̉͌͊̅̓á̴̮̭̮͚͔̓͗͑̑̊̑̆ͦ̽̍̽̎̓̉̀͢͡ǘ̷̥̘̰̻͓̼͙̞͈͍̭̺̺̇̂͊̈́ͭ̉̿̏̂̌ͮͫ̔̂́ͥͪ͜͢d̆͑̍̐̆ͥ͑̔ͯ̓ͥ̉̕̕͠҉̩̦̞͕͚̞̳̺̤å̄̐̉͏̷̶҉̪̹͍̺̖c̖̻̖͓̻̮͇̭͍̘̃̔̑̄͠į̵ͭͩͤ͗ͤ̓̈͑̀͌ͭͦ͑ͮ̓ͤ͏̨̨̱̻͕͕̯̗͇̯͓̬̝͕̖̯̯͖̥t̵̛͇͇͓̦̙̝͙̓̿͊ͣͤ͌ͬ̈́ͥ̈́̿̓̏̚ͅy̫̠̟͓̖̩̼̠̱̦̙̯̮̟̠͇͆ͨͨ̊̆̉̆̽̓̈́ͧ̂̐ͫͬͣ͂ͩ̕.̡͒̏ͥͬͯ̔͏͉̲̜̬̺̭͔͎̝͓̩̣ͅͅ ̷̢̢͓͙̰͙̼͕͖̝̗̜͇̹͎̾͌̃͆ͥ̆͐ͤ͞ͅͅ ̴̢̙̹̘͓̹͖̟ͨ̈̄ͯ̒̊̑͂ͧ̑̊͗́T̵͓͔̫̻̄̾̒̅͐ͣͪ̇ͩ̐ͮ̃̚͘͜ͅh̰̣̬͖̩̼͐ͤͤ̓͆̓͌͐̀̄͌̂͘͘͘e̐̐̆ͯͨͭ̚͠҉̨͖͓͈̟ ̆̐ͫ̾͏̢҉̴͈͈̳̻̠͈̘s͊ͯ͂́͏̸̨̰͉̩͓͓̹̠͘h̴̸̺͇͉͙̼̤̲̼̺̲͉͇̥̘̟̃̏̒̇̒͛͐̂ͣ̐͆͘ȩ̴̠̳̫͔̪̠͚̘̪̻̳̦̼͍̖̘̗ͨ͆̎̈̈́ͬͫ̓ͫ̿ͯ̇̅̒͊͂ͨ̓̕͢ę̶̬̫̻̥̟̙͉̲̰̪̰͈̤̣̭͕̬̌̏̃̓ͮ̈ͣ̓ͯ͂ͤ͑̂ͨ͑͡r̵̶̴̤͓̗̞̤͈̭͙̯̙͈̖̘̞̳̟̹͙̭͐́ͫ̓̽̐̾ͦͣ͗͂̔͗ͯ̀ ̛͒̏͛ͤ͏͚̖̝ͅȂ̧̨͖̩͔̞̖͇̗͓̜̦̙̳ͤͥ͆͐̈́ͦ̚̚͢͢R̢̟̯̘̣̫̣̱̼̰̗̻̗̺͕̼̙ͫ̂͆̔̽̈́̃̈̏̽ͩ͜͞R̴̡̧̛̺͈̬̩̤̤̪̞͍̘̟̤͖ͦͫ̃̈́̍̆ͯͧ̾̋̽ͅǪ̵̨͚̪͓̪̰̯̱̩̳͚̥͈̪̲̩̤̲̰̉̏͆͊͌̈́͌̈ͮ̓ͯͨͩ̀͂ͭͥ̕ͅG̢̛̗͉̪̥̤͍͓̥̩̺̫̐̈́̑͂̊͊̏̅ͤ̓̊̏ͤ́́̓ͤ̉A̸̬̫̥̣̠̥̦̳͔̳̘̮̺͇̖ͣ͌͗̉ͨ̒ͬ͂ͅͅͅŅ͗̓̃͒҉̗̻̠̬͓̯̺͍͈C̴̨̧̘͙̗̫̙͎͓̬͍̻͈̈̓̈ͮ̃̆͂͝Ē̔ͬͪ͌̽ͯ͒͑̿̉̽̔̿͡͏͍̗̺̲̥̥̜̰̤͖̼̰͍͇̥̜̙ ̨̘̰̯̜̭͕̪̯̠͕̻̮͎͆̊͋̂́̄̄̽͗̚͟ͅŏ̓̿̈̈̓̿͐͒͋̔ͩ͆̈́̈́̿͂̄҉̪͚̻̜͍̻̦͟͟͝f̓͐̂͐̀͌ͩ͌̀͊̍ͤͤͯ҉͙̦̤̦̲̙̖̲͖̫̱̠͖̜͙̕ ̨̧̩͙̤̟̼̦̮̤̰͉̗͙̜̥̠̤̪̟̍̈́̋̔͊iͥ̔ͬ̒͗͑ͨ̌̂ͮͣͧ̌̑ͣͫ҉̶̱̘̙̥̲̘͓̜͔̪̰̺͚̟̪ţ̴̵̢̢͈̗̤̯̻̦̫͇͖̙̗̦ͪ̓̽̓̆͊̑͒ͬ̒ͫͣ̐ͨͅ ̛̖͚̳͖̰̞̙̥̖̪͐͛ͩͯ̈̈́̒͂̚͜͠͞a̵͂͋̒̓͏̶̸̴̭̪͓͙̪͕ḽ̵̡̺̤̣̟͙̪̜͓̙ͣ̓́̈̂̈́ͯ͊ͪͣ͋́ͧ̈ͦ̍̍ͦ͜͡l̩̫̖͈̩̯̜̪̲͇̔̔̑̆ͣ͑̂͌̎ͭ͑ͬ̿ͦ̂̾̎̽̉͟.̨͖̤͔͎ͬ͗ͧͫ̎̉ͩ̐͌̋ͨ͡͡͝ ̉̎͆ͬͤ̒̋̐ͯ̑̎͊ͥ̊͌ͧ̔͞͏̢̺͈̫̣̳̦͇͇̯͖̳͍̗̘͓̗͕̳̪̕ ̴̭̯̖̫̹̯̙̳̝̺͕͎ͤͥͬ̂̕͟͞ͅM̳̙̬͕͓̙͚͈̥̭͂̈̃̀̾͘̕ą̠̟͚̗͕̹͋͆̃ͣ́͗ͨ͊͘n̵̄̓͗ͬ̀ͧ̐̑͆͏̨̧҉̝͚̥̞̹̘̣͚̰̗̹̯͍̮̖̪̰͈k̶̸̗͎͔̘̙̗̙̬̳͎̳̣͌̿́̅͆ͤͦ̎̑͂̉͘i̧̢͉͖͍̙̗͉̫̝͙̱͙ͫ͗͛͑̆̏̍̉n̷̵͇̖͕̤͎̭̩͈̟̼͙̬̦̞̹̉̊̈́͋̃ͥ̒̽̏̔̊̚̕͜d̨́̏̆ͭ̔̓ͤͩ͗̾͑͒̌͂̌͐̚҉̶̡̻̲̙͕̳̥͙͖͕ ̶̊ͤ͑́ͪͮ̆ͬ̆̔̀̌̏̾͏̼͇͕͇͍̝̘̙͔̬̙̗̰͕̝̹̯̟͞h̨̜̘̯̱̳͕͙͔͕̿ͣͬ͊̎͢͠a̴̵̛̝̤̟͔̿̆͋̂͛ͪ̃͗ͧ̊̑ͪͩ͐͝ͅş̨̞̹̥̭͙̘͕̣̇ͩͭ̈́͠͡ͅ ̷̴̪̣̤͇̪̲̯̘̭̝͉͙̯̖̱̣̫̗̲̓͒ͧͪͯ͢͞s̡͇̮̻̖̻̘̣̳̜̯̫͈͎̳̲̜͌̓͌̋͗͐̎ͣ͐̓̔ͥ̿̇̋̚̚͘ͅt̶̩̼͔̪̹͚̜̼̼̣̟̫̬̘̦͓͚͚̊͊͗̂̄̎̐͂ͣȗ̡͖͙̙͎̯͉̰͍̼̻̟̺̒ͭ̉̂ͭͩ̍͌̀̒ͩ͘͢ͅc̈̂̽ͭ͆͊ͣ̋ͪ̋͋̅͒̓ͪ̎̏͡҉̭͈̙̣̰͙̤̗̤̠̳̬̙͎͈̻̺͉̙͝k͒̒̏̆̄̇̔̅̎̄̽̏̌ͤ͛ͤ̕͠͡͏̩͕̭͓ͅ ̷̡̠͈͖̞̣̪̱̩͉͇͐̇̿̄̊ͣ̓̏̎͑̊͠a̶̷̡̯̬̹͈̟͎̻̩̭͂̀ͨ̏͋ͫ̌̍̆̇̾ͧ͛͗ͤ͛ͦ̚͢͠ ̸̩̳̬͈̦̪͚̺̞͉̲̘̪̐̄̋̊̄ͬ̊͜͠ͅc̢̧̤̥̤͇͔̩̹͈̝̪͎͚̫͔͗̔̌̈́́̅ͤ̃̀ͬ̀̕͟͠l̸̫̳̰̙̯̲̫͍͔̫̞̬̗̦͗ͣ̊̍͟͝ạ̴̶̢̹̖͎̗̝̤̖̭̟̭̗̲̰͚͕̟ͨ̆̂ͧ̇̍̈̆ͥͬ̽̑͘į̨̱͕̲̦͍͖͙͚̰̰̗̭̙̼̣͛ͤ̐̀̎ͭ͋̂ͬͨ͋̾̉͊̚͜ͅm̵̛̝͍͔̪̯̥͍͉͈̱̼̜̱ͧ̓͗́̏ͥ̎͌͜ͅ ̵̻̭̪͚̣̜̲̬̻̥̬̦ͬ̓̅̀ͮ̑̔͐̇ͨ̏̈ͮ̌͒̑͢͡i̶͈̙͕̥̮͎̗̩͚̟͛̐ͩͭ̊͟n̶̨̛̓ͥͧ̽͛ͤ̎̅̾̐ͯ̒̂̑̌҉̪͔̫̤̩̙͘ ̛̛͖̘͙̮̭͕̩̼̗͈͓̖̩̺̹̈́ͧͣ́ͯ̑ͦ̋ͨ͜͠͝ṫ̼̝͖̱̩͛̿͆̆̈́̿ͪ͒ͤͩ̆ͩ̓́̑͗͑͜͠ͅh̡̨̛̝͕͇̪̰̫̭̲͇͈̰͖̓ͥ̂̎́̌ͪ͒ͣͤ͜ą̸ͩ̄͛̓̐̍̒̌ͧ̾̎͌́҉̣͈̥̭͈̳̟̼̻͍̜̝͝ţ̶̡̘̼͙̠̗̻̙̘͙̹̹̳̗̦̉ͯ̈ͭͫͤ͒̊̌ͨ̿̋͆͢͡ͅ ̔ͣ͐̃͛ͯ͂ͤ̒ͣ͂̿ͮ͛͏̶̶̢̳̰̟̫͘w̧̛̫̝̞̼̋ͪ̃ͤĥ̡̺̱̻͉̳̹̰̫͎̞̪̭͖̙̝̗̾͐̆̓̉̌ͦ̈́̕͞ͅĩ̙̞̳̠̘͚̪̱̪͍ͨͦ͛̐ͥ̀̓̅ͥͣ͡c̴̴̻̳̟͚̞̖̗͕̟̥̙̰͓̓͊̈ͭ͌̋̀ͨͪ͜h̷̸̴̙̮̦̘͕͆ͣ̄̋̿ͭ͊̀͗ͩ̚͞ ̧̺͎̺̪͚̙͍̥͙̍̽́̀͞s̿̾̓͒ͪ͏̖̙̲͎̟͇͚͉̯̲͘h̳̟͕̣̻͙̎̽͛ͧͫ̆ͬ̏̃̑̂ͫ̓̊͌͐ͮ̎͢͡ͅǫ̛̤͈͇̤̬͉̮͙̩̤̻͙̾ͦ̌ͣ͑̍͑̉̕ư̢̛͉͕͔͇̼̲̗͙̟̻̦̼̞̇͒͗ͩ͂ͥ̈ͯͤ̑ͣ̊̔̌ͮ͠l̨͔̙͖͓͑̒ͫ͂ͣ̚d̵̜̖̮̯̼͈̳̺̫͖͍̤̖͎̺̽̑̋̐̏̊̋ͥ͊ͮ͗̌̽͜͡ͅ ̛̼̘̯͔͔̤͇̖̖̳͓̹̱̠̜̌̿͊͂ͩͣͫ̈̄ͥ̿͋ͧ̒̔̏ͦ̈̽͡͝ͅh̡̘̖̲̩̜̒͒͒̔̈́ͥ̍̆͛̓ͮ́ͮ͌̕͜͞a̷̡̻̺̞̘̱̻̳̓̓͊̎̆͘v̶̶̥̰̺̤͕̙͊͊̔͗̅ͮ͋̈͋̅͌̏ͭͅe͒̽̊͊ͥͪ͋̅̓̈ͪ̈̽̍̽̌͏̶̟͍̼̺̻̯͘ ̴̶̶̢̳̳̮̭̮̥̼̮̇̐ͦ̓͌̀͂͗ͧ̀͘n͚̺͈̘͉̣̦̠̖̫̝ͬ͑̓̑ͩ͐ͭ͑̓̏̂ͭ̕͞ő̷̢̌ͤ̽̓҉͉̳̺͖̱̭̱͈͓͕͉̞̺͕͇̮̝̘ ̶̶̢̰̫̝͇̪̗͓̭̮͈͇̠͎͒̀ͥ̈́̇͆͆̿͗ͬ̆̒̚͞b̷̪̜̘̺̟̻̟̗̪̰̥̯̟̜̣̦̱̲̻̋ͭ̅̃̃̌͠ő̦̟̖͚̼͍͓̦̖̠̞͈́͆̌ͬ̆̂ͨͭ̎͌̌̚͘͜͠r̷̵̢̥̞̣̬̝͔̟̰̪͎̠͓̫̙̅ͨͪͦ̉͐̏ͪ̈ͤ̊̌̈́̊̃̆̚̚d̤̝̼̼͖̻̈͛ͬ̎̎ͤ͗ͩ̂ͣ̽͌͟e̢ͦͦ̂̄̐ͫ̂͂͛̏ͧ̃҉̡̹̹̫ŕ̸̘̞̯͓̥̬̔̆̄̐̇͌̄̋̏͗̒̅̌̕͝s̵̏ͨͥͦͤ҉̩̬̱̠̞͉͙͕̰͍̲̲̠̤̤̟̱͘͠͡ ͊̅̓͆ͭͯͨͯ̏҉̴̨͙̙̠͇͡͡a̐̐ͪͩͮ̈̈͗͌̚҉̛͝͏̼͇̘̬͉̥̱͇̜̲͇̜͈̞̱̠̪̞̻n̸̡͍̩̻̞̪̲̤̭̪̻̯̮̥̓̔ͬͭͤ̂̏̈́̐͜d̶̛̤͚͇̗̞̦͎͚̖̯̬͕̼̰̐̉̋͑̇͛ͮ̽͘ ̉̽ͦ͋̍҉̢͏̺͓͎͎͖͕̬̰͎̬͠f̵̨̨̺͚̭͓͖̯̙͖̫͉̼̟̫̞̙̮̲͑ͥ̑̾̄ͤ̎̈́ͤ̃ͫͪ͂̚̚͢͠ͅo̼̭̗̬̗̲͔͙̬͕̅ͣ̌͋̋ͩ̈͛r̡̟̘̙͉̖̗̻͖̤̤ͧ̏ͥ̾ͧ̿̃͊͘͢ ̵ͫ̑ͯ͛̽͑͏̧̼̩̯̮̘̹̦̠̭̻̣͚̹̪͖̲̼͡ͅi͐̔ͫ̇́͊͌̋ͧ̒̈́͂̔͡͏̥̖̻̩̣̥̟t̸̴̡͉̤̰̪̠͉̰̮̳̖̳̻̬͈̝͙ͨͬ̉̀̌͒̓̀ͨͨ̔͆ͩ̊͝ ̶̶̷̃̆͌̓͛̈̄̎̅͏̖̤̜͔t̶ͮ̓͂̒͆̿͋̑̌̉̎ͧ̌ͫ̊̍ͫ͟͞͏͎͚̟̳̱͖͝ḧ̨̈̃ͨ̂ͧͦ̇҉̴̨̥̬̯̩͍̙̭̟̣̙͎̫͇̰͖ͅe̷̡̳̟̣̥̾̈́̄̑̐̅ͥ͂͐̃ͪ̿̕͠ỹ̵̴͉̜͔̣̞͓̩̓̏̔ͮ͢ ̸̨̤̮̼̯̫̤̯̫͈̠̫̰͎̟̗͇ͭ̎̅ͯ͋͛͑̄ͩ̓́̃s̬̥̩̤̭̥͔̠̠̫̟͍̲̺͈̲̓̊̋ͥ̄̚ͅͅh̸̡͙͔̝͎̤̅ͤ̊͋ͨ̋͊ͫa̵̛̟̯̤̠̯͎̜͙̞͖͇̖̘͕̤͖̋ͮ͋̃̽ͤ͌̈́̋ͅļ͍̭̻̹̻͔̥͖̼̠̰̟̮͖͖ͣ̊ͩ͋̈͆̐͊̒͜l̐̒̿͂̓͗̈́̈́ͤ̅͐ͮͮ̉ͫ̇̓ͪ̚͢҉̲͔̤͉̙̻̞̺̞̗͉͖̜̜̝̼͘͜ ͈̘̮̪̻̙̯̖̘̝̲͓̓͛ͯ̈̓ͬ͆͊̀͋ͨͬ̊͢͡fͪ̿ͦ̏ͮ̆ͮ̄͂̔̆̓̓͛̚͝҉̵͇̗̰̫̜̟̪̪̠̥͍̳u̵̢͖̳̩̝̼̤͕͎̼̝̰̙̪̼̘͎̔̿̀͂̆ͪ̿͐ͤ́ͧͫͅc̸̃ͣ́̇͛ͣ҉̲̙͎͖̹̲̖͙̱͖̲̥͍̩͕̝̠̲͟͞k̲͕͔͇̹̩͉̏̑͑̇ͥ̑̿̍̋̚͟͠e̐̀ͧͨͫ̉̒͟͞͏̗͇͚̦̹̺͕̘̝̻̜n̸̮̰͖͍̺͉̲͓͇̥͎̙̣̗͚̫͇ͩͨ̍̑͜͜ͅ ̨̔̾̔ͨ̍̃͆̋̎҉̷͓͓̞͖̞͡S̵͖͚͈̼̹͇͖̱̙̝̺̅̉̇ͥͬ͂ͬ̂ͧ̾̀͌͗̉̔͟U͇̦̯̙̰͔͙̖̰̯͂͋͑ͭ͆͗̆ͮ͆́͜͡F̨̛̭̮̫̗̖̺̣͙͍̔̋͊̔͗̆ͫ̐̊͐̎̈̄̏ͥ͜͞Fͦ̊͗ͣ͛͂̇̈̊͗ͩ͞͏̩͈̰͙͕͖̝̩͓͕̱̝̟̞̼̱̞͢E̵̫̖̱͕̩̩̥̝̭͎̞̼̜̥͒ͦ͋͘͘ͅR̵̢̨͍̬̹̞̫͉̣̞̲̯̲̫̪̟̫̩͇͒̓ͫ͒͆̿͋̒́͂ͨ̃̃ͯͧͯ̃̑͡ ̭̼̖̮̰͎̻͖̹͓̗̹̿̾ͭ͋ͯͪ͒̀̓̑͆̀͝ͅm̡̩͎̯͇͍̥͍͚̮̬̃ͩͭ̄̊̓̓ͮ̾͟͞oͥ̒ͮͮͪͭ͏͚̼̤̥̼̳͟.̠̩͔̩ͧ́̋͒̓̌͐͜ ̧̢̢̼͍͕͙͖͇̰͈͂ͣ͗̔̿ͪͮ͗ͥ͂̇̓ ̷̓̓̃̒͋ͨ̑̇̓̏ͬ͑̈́͋ͫ͏͠҉̲͎̭͇̹̱ͅT̨̈́ͬ͐ͨͮ͛ͨ̔͋͌ͬ̿͐̀͘͟͜͏͎̹̤͙̗͔̟̼͓͕͓̲̠ͅͅͅh̶̨̨̥̬̝͍͔̜̺̹̤̪́͌̉͜i̛͒ͫ͐̔̎ͤͥ͏̡͎̮͕̖͕̖̙̼̫͇͈̫̮͎͍͙ͅs̸̤͍̳̲̼̱̫̯̥͎̟͚̫͐͑ͩ̌̂̽̒ͧ͒̐͘͡͡͠ ̶̴̡̩̙̤̰̰̙̳͕̝̙̳͈͎͌͐͛̾̒i̡̡̩̰̟̟̗̘̣̹͓̱̬͎̜̩̟͔͌ͮ̈́͛̈ͪ̉̿̋̃ͫ̋̐̊ͨ̚ͅș̸̴͇̫̫͎̲̖̻̯̣̫̯̭̖̬̥̭͙̰̀̎̎ͦ̅̄̈͋ͦ̈́́̀̋ͭ̚͠ ̸̦̳̥̘̞̞̘͎̓̉̏͗̍ͮ̊̀̏͐̇̃f̸̉̍̽͋̽ͯ̇͂̾ͨ҉͏̤̦͉̗̳̻̰̫̯̩̼͍̩͚̗̬̩u̴̱͉͚̰͔̣̱̱̝̟̼͆̄͆̋̋̔̒̃ͤ͝c̶̨̛̘͖̭̠̻̠͍̮͓̘̭̒̃̑̐̌ͪ̑͗̃̋̉̽̚͢͡k̛͇͙͎̫̗̰ͤͭ̓̇̆̾́̑̇͛͂̐̀̚͘͘͜ͅḯ̴̧̛̛̤̜̺͔͇̼̥̯̠͇̱̟̞͚̯ͭͧͮ͒̑̾́ͧ̇̒̂ͪ͢ͅn̨̅ͭ̆͊͋ͯͧͨ͝҉̻̺̬̜̦̤̝̥̯͠ğ̨̢̡̼͕̤̩̫̬͉͚̤ͭ̆̏ͬͪ͝ͅ ̴̜̪̻̪̩̦͔̻̹͔͙̯̤͗ͩ̑̏͒̉̀̐͡r̆͌͌̒̑̈́͐ͣ͋̐̔͛̈̄̃̋̐̐҉̷̷̥͙̜̱͔̻̼̹͉̬̫̕ͅͅi̵̴̠͖͔̙ͣ̀ͣͬ̕͟ͅͅḓ͕̰͈͇͇͙̝̮̩̰̭̿̓ͥ͋̄ͣ̃͛ͧͨ̔̄ͩ͘͡͞i̴̮͈͙̘̣̼̘͍̤͙̳͉͉̼͎ͦ̆̓̑ͦ̉̅̑͋̇̍̈͜͜c̶̫͖̠̩͖̺͕̻̻̩̣̥͚͔̜̫̫̦̓̍ͪ͑̅̋̋ͬ͂ͣ͜u͍̯̻̗̺͖̯͍̹̝̳̖͇̘͖͔̩̓̌͌͂ͫ̅ͧl̢̨̘̱̤͓͕̬̘̯̝ͪ̊ͧͬ͊̓ͣ̽ͭ̇͑̎͌̕͠͠ȯ̶̡̯̮̳͚͇̩͉͓͌̍ͩͤͦ̎̑ų̸̘̠̯̠͖̟̲̣̈́̃͆̃͋ͦ̅͑ͣ͐̍̓ͧͭ̇͊̚͡s̷̢̪͇̗̩̬̬̥͒ͨͥ͐̏̋̍̈̑͠ ̨̼͍̪̣̖͇̬̯̼͕̓ͯ̃̽̌ͯ̽͛̈̃̂͘h̵̼̤̻̅͐͑̓̃͛ͫ̔̑ơ̷̡̝̥̤̲̳̰͈͈̪͈͕̱͇̗̭̰̼̲͑́̌̉̊ͮ̒̔͊͐̚w̆͆ͯ͊ͧͩ̐̽ͮͦͫ͏͓͖̘̻̮̳̤̼ ̴̧ͪ̑̊ͧ͗͗ͩ̿̍̒ͦ̒ͥ̋ͧ̏ͨ͢҉̛͕̗͎̟̭̖͕͈͍̣̲̬̻͙̰͖̺͎ͅd̢͒ͣͥͬ̚͏̵̗̠̣͎̻̳̞̲̤̳͕͇̫͖͔͔͕ơ̸̼̰͓̑̐̐́ͭ̽͗͑ͯͯ̀̋͒ͨͩͦ̂͜ ̸̴̢̝̝̜̩̣̔̌̇̅̓̒̌̍̄̏͢y̧̻̙̜̭̜͈̰̜͎͈̣̤͕̙̰̳̯͓̱̅̿̓ͬ̐̎ͫͪͬͫ̃̇̑͐͡͞͡o͛̈́̄̇̂͌͆ͩ̅ͨͩ̆̿̔̄҉͚̺͕͖̼̯̦̥̠u̷̪̬̻̞̯̟̝̫͙̥̅̍͒̽̾̀͛ͤ͐ͮ̓̏͗̌̊ͦ͒͗̚ ̸̸̡̤̮͈̖͔͚͔̜̪̦̙̙̀̎ͥ̇͌̉́͆̓̍̈̚ͅͅe̔͗̾͏͏̷̧͔̦̰̙v̽ͥ̽̃͐̇ͬ͋̈́ͪͦ̅̚͠͞҉͎͍̙͚̬̳̬̩͕e̸̤̪͇̰̱͎̘̠̼̔́̀̀̎ͦ͛̂̌͐ͦ̔̍ͤ̓̊͜͟ṋ̤̮͎͓͉̪̙̯̥̳̪͙̫͇̯͚͒̊ͯ̀̄ͣ̎̒̇́̄̈́̉͐̇ͦͥ̈́ͤ͝͞ͅͅ ͇̯͙̤̭̫̥̻̆ͮ͛͆͗ͨͮ͆ͮ̀̄̊ͨͪ̎̿ͦͨ͢

Somewhere, chains broke and someone mourned the loss of sanity.

_[Ding!]_

[User** Touch_Me** is online]

Deep in the chamber of a tomb, Suzuki Satoru shadow seethed and sobbed in a turmoil of emotions. Ainz should be a true leader and bring action towards investigating what this meant. 

Does this mean you're here? 

Instead, he closes his eyes, this is what you see. Not black, because the absence of light couldn’t include these shifts and wobbles of darkness. It’s how you feel when everyone’s gone, and you’re all alone again. It’s that gaping hole in your chest that just means sadness. 

But you're here now. 

But he can't contact you. Instead, there's a static in his ear, a low buzzing that held nothing but white noise.

He remembers-- 

You with your back turned to him, the sun blinding everything, not hurting you, how could it? You were the personification of justice, after all, kind smiles, strong actions with bold declarations.

You were his first friend. The only friend made outside these walls of the planet made of smog and smoke. 

Kind. Just. _Missing_.

Demiurge shuddered as the echos threw furniture and primal screams tore through the thick walls of Nazarick. 

He was given an order to raise the protection of Nazarick, the Supreme Being's Home, as most of the servants searched the New World for any whisper of ghosts or whips of the Supreme's Being power.

He did not know what happened for a mere moment when he was reporting the progress when the power suddenly unleashed to the unsuspecting people of Nazarick. 

It hollowed, the raging stormed as it whispered over his head, but it felt like screaming from so very far away-- _The m̛̕a͘y̷ ̕͜n̵҉o҉͞t́͟ ͟͠l̀i̶̛ve͢ ͜͞t̕o͢ ͠s̷̷͜e͞ę̵ ou͏̧r̸͢͞ ̷g͠͏ļ͞ǫ͝r̵̀͜y̧-̵͜͠"͘͞ Strong are supposed --- I_t brought even the strongest warriors and servants to their knees, to hear such cries of pain, hollow solitary, with the underlying _power_ that echos within.

He shudders, prays for the safety of Nazarick as he marches to fulfill his duties with the utmost respect and care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, what should i call a random fish i found? Its small and red and i think im gonna call it Sweden.


	5. Silent Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are chained, turned into a hand puppet, and you just want to take a breather for a few seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What comes after this will be a battle for the survival of humanity as a species. It will be a fight for the future. Devote your hearts and souls to it."
> 
> \- Emperor Jircniv to his Imperial Servants.

After everything is said and done, you think everything is going to be okay. Things could be a lot worse ! And that's _o k a y_.

A thing to celebrate ! Something to hold dear to these dark, meek days. Or nights. You can't remember that well anymore.

For a few merciful moments, the haze chained around your mind freed itself and it was like looking through your glasses for the first time.

You hate this. You're starting to think that you're hating too much, that much toxic will do you no justice down the road. It's having a blindfold on your senses, as it squeezes a tight rope around his throat and leaves you paralyzed. You think you're starting to hold a thought of _where_ exactly you were.

You laugh at the irony.

When people come near you, before and after the accident, many wouldn't come near two meters of you. Most content with watching your withering body float chained down like a balloon.

The only one that does even come a meter close to him now, those that aren't magic users ( no matter how much his mind is telling to stop, _that's not real_ ) is the young emperor.

He still looks like a world admired model with too much power, clever and cunning behind the colored eyes. He wants to be strong, be a pillar for society, because society is weak and needs something to latch to. Something to claw on and proclaim as theirs. Something akin to hope.

The world ran out a couple of decades ago.

After the accident, he heard some of the younger magic users refer to it as such, you're starting to think that this is maybe not hell. 

You died. Blood, guts, leaving behind rotting flesh of muscles and bones. You know that. You know many things now, looking at the insect-like feet that you posses. You remember that much. 

( _You also remember your terrified daughter's face, red and hysterical as she screams and begs_ ) 

You _know_ those feet. How could you not?

Your head is starting to hurt again.

When did you see those feet? 

You spend hours, upon hours, in front of something. A bright screen with endless possibilities and opportunities.

This is your quest.

You try to _think!_ just trying to remember something important, before like a small fish that glides through your fingers. It comes out empty.

You are starting to mourn your time in the dungeon. At least there it was peaceful, well, as peaceful as one could be in a place called the dungeon.

People always gossip.

Always talk.

Always laugh.

Always pray.

Always.

Always.

_Always_.

You're starting to hate the word always.

How ironic.

The banquet was a sumptuous, luxurious meal for the bountiful in coins. You can already see the splendid decorative, and exquisite handpicked by the tops of the best. The expensive-looking meals cooked and prepared by tireless chief with delicate hands.

And, if you know anything, a good banquet demands good entertainment. 

You were honestly surprised when someone approached you. Many of the guests around you paid you no mind, just for the constant whispers and occasional fingers pointed in your general direction. 

It was a girl.

Or a boy with a really, really high pitch.

"Can you hear me?" 

Your chains stilled, the metal clicking and twinkling in the golden bask of the candles. The unfamiliar voice catching you, unaware as you were drifting along the day. Again.

You nod, silently hesitant, just barely to the naked eye. 

"Who are you?" 

You huff and amused silent laugh. _Who are you?!_ You are a painting, a dead man, a god, an object, a human, a father, a husband, a man. 

You are nothing. 

You keep silent.

"You look familiar. What does the word **Momonga** mean to y 

O

u?" 

Momonga.

_MOMONGA._

** _M O M O N G A !!_ **

You shriek with laughter, throwing your head back, unhinging your jaw and feeling the tremors coming deep from your belly spreading to your arms.

You laugh and laugh in the silence that hushed through the crowd, all activities stilled and stood frozen as if a photographer pin it in the perfect, living shot. 

You laugh and laugh until your airy laughs turn dry with your raw throat. 

The emperor looks so stunned, his perfect features stood frozen with the scenery around him, but it quickly turns into a mindless stream of questions. 

You tune it out, your eyes fixated on the marble roof, with lavish art, and try not to laugh. 

What a stupid joke your life as turned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here we are again, huh. I have been working on a new fanfiction (wow, yeah, look at that) and its been literally a fucking decaded since i wrote this and im still not fucking finished. Jesus. I'll edit this when I wake up.


	6. Dreams of a king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainz doesn't try to understand the predicament that entangled you, but he swore with a vengeance that he would place the world at your feet if you asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"If the road is harsh, it is only natural to take your sword and help."_
> 
>     \- Touch Me

"Forgive me, my lord, for my inadequate ignorance, but are you sure of this?" Demiurge, even as subtle as one of his kin could be, struggled to keep the nervous tick out of his hovering tail.

Ainz didn't bother to acknowledge the presence behind him, favoring to bear witness to the dying sunlight reaching forevermore and touching that country which he couldn't see.

He wonders if you were seeing the same sun rays, or were you withering in darkness, unable to see the desperate rays reaching for him?

(He doesn't like that thought very much)

And when he does finally turn, Demiurge is struck by how angered his lord has become by the foolish question, he bows deeply, praying for a long drawn death as a penalty for asking. 

"It's alright. I need you to gather the floor guardians as soon as possible. It is of. . . Importance." 

And he bows again, ( _singing praises for his lord's mercy _) as he is a god's tool, he goes with a fire in his feet, leaving his master behind. And behind him, Ainz stands in solitude, trying to hold his head high as he tries to _understand._

Ainz tries not to cry.

* * *

"I have gathered each and everyone one of you here for a special announcement." His deep voice carries weight through the echos of the walls, countless times when others, too, were gathered here. (_His friends, family_) Those gathered around him, far away to not notice the wavering light in his eyes. 

They await eagerly, leaning forward as if the physical closeness would spur the news faster. (He tries not to weep). He steps closer in response, as he opens his arms wide and in a grand measure adds—

"Due to your hard work, I was able to review some documents lost through the shift of location—(_lies_)—and through it, I made a discovery." He waits as the information sinks in, just for a second before he gestures to the banners hanging above them, watching like waiting ghosts.

And above them, the banner _shines_.

* * *

Ainz stood, stumped by the simple action that he himself brought before he shook himself out of his own haze. 

Its been more than a week, and so far they have gathered this: 

One; Roughly around the same time that Ainz himself was transported to this new world, the Grand Fool made a breakthrough of centuries of old spells and chants. (He doesn't think him, he tries not to of the man _lost_\--)

Then, three months after pervasiveness through blackmail, bribery and sweet talk, did he get the green light to summon. 

And he summoned a God. 

Could this mean that anyone, within those that first to last played the game could be summoned? Or only those with ties to him, an ancher to the world?

Are you suffering? Detached from his Nazarick's reach, from the wide halls of the tomb to the far away skies above them. He wonders how much blood he will spill to reach you. 

He sees you sometimes. Your presence is in the cracked stones of the walls, your touch in the wrinkles and pores of Sebas skin. 

( _With a helm and a chest piece, with a glittering sapphire embedded in the middle over the sternum, forged with fire and anointed by holy ash. Radiating with pure and divine light. Adorned with your crimson-red cape with gold accents, royal and high above those unworthy_ )

He wonders how it would feel like to crack the stones of the empire's foundation, to grap the hair of this "magician" in his fist, to mash it to the ground of their "holy" sites and drag his still breathing body to the very feet of the guardians. 

"Sire, we have comfirmed that our Supreme Being Touch Me has indeed been trapped under magic. Plan Repentance is underway." 

Ainz smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! Sorry I haven't been updating as much as I should. And its not as long as I wanted. I wanted to give Ainz a bit more screentime. I'll come back and edit this when I can.


	7. Forgotten roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You jump at every sound, ghosts and giant phantoms are at the crevices of your feet. You look up and see your daughter hanging in the ceiling. 
> 
> You scream. 
> 
> Nothing comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why did you save me, a player you don't even know?"
> 
> —_"Saving someone who is in trouble is common sense!" _

You should wonder when you started to slip under. This when you began to breathe, when your eyelids start to move under, and _you wake up_-

You see things, and start to _remember_: Your mother worked and worked, rising higher education and work for a better future. You were so sure, secure in yourself that you could keep that stability for yourself. (_Pale lips, unfocused eyes as she strikes and screeches- _)

_Don't you understand? This world ain't meant to be understood_ those few words were spoken before your father passed away from rotting and decaying lungs, still haunt you even here. You have no rest for you here, not that you even had any. Your mother wept only once, during the service, but underneath the privacy of your home, she stayed far too quiet.

You try not to think.

It's hard when thinking is the only thing worth doing around here.

You are chained in a tower, spinning like delicate glass, suspended in an ornament for onlookers that said _look at what I did, I conquered gods, what can you do?_

(Again, again, again, again)

You try not to think. _Try_ is the keyword in the sentence.

_You can call me... Touch Me!! I am a Paladin of Justice sent by nature itself!_

Once, when your hair was fuller and your eyes brighter, you confided in your mother that you wanted to be a policeman, to save the dashing woman, and help the old lady cross the street. She looked so pitiful, it was only when in chains did you realize that she was looking at _you_.

When you trained in the academy, they taught you three different things. One; don't ever, not even _think_, about fucking with the Corporations. _(You went on to be their lapdog)_ Two; Don't go around asking questions. Questions aren't bad, it's who's listening and who's receiving. It could be a slip of the tongue, or a person listening to the wrong words, but they hear it and it's over. 

(He learned this when he was still green, his academy partner, a woman who drowned three days later in her blood after she asked her supervisor about suicides and the corporates. Too many eyes and too many questions.)

You didn't ask any questions after that.

Your salvation manifested in a game and a headset after you bought it shortly after your mother's passing. (_She screamed about the end of times, but it was talked if they weren't living it right now_) It was only meant to fill time in that lonely house (too big, too quiet) yet somehow it became second in your priority list, topped only by your job. 

You try to mute the multiple voices in your head of friends and strangers alike. You don't want to remember, not here, not now.

Your mind though is always turning. You see your daughter between the shadow's start and end, where the sunlight hits a stone and you are transported to the time she and you went on a "hunt" around the house looking for the magical remote.

She was three and your wife was still alive.

Or when you twist your head a little too fast and the blur of colors looks just how your wife looked when it was a Christmas party and her dress dipped and spinner all in the right angles. When the lights dimmed, her diamond earrings were plucked from the photographs of infinite space.

She was pregnant and you were engaged.

What was the shade of her favorite lipstick? The shine in her hair after a shower? Did she eat using her right or left? 

You weep.

You know how to disassociate, its something the academy also teaches, because its a gap where fantasy meets reality, one you can't jump over. The abandoned world collides with the backdrop of his imagination, it causes a whiplash that snaps the neck of those without protection.

This is one of the tools that help.

Your daughter is a mischievous thing, running wild between the stones under your feet, laughing as the wind covers her smile. (You don't pay attention when soldier's boots start to raid the tower, anger melting their tongues as they point to you to attack. The chains start to heat up and contract as you force to **scream**)

Your daughter still looks as angelic, so much that you begin to sing her song, a little tune ripped from the book as she twirls and dances in the dust of the sunlight. (The soldiers bring you outside, where the sky is bleeding red, and the clouds were colored black. The world is still _s p i n n i n g_.)

Your wife smiles so softly, her legs teasing and her eyes singing you a song about temptation and lust. You move towards her, but your feet are the rocks of the soil, but you still orbit and gravitate towards her. With her waterfall hair and her eyelashes made from fine gold. 

(Screams and orders get mixed, but something _within_ you is forced outwards and light escapes you. You saw symbols like this once, in a game far away. _Magic_, a timid voice awes. And in the horizon, a light springs to life to mirror yours.)

Pᴹlᴼaᴹyᴼeᴺrᴳsᴬ.?! dᴹoͣeᵍsͥnͨ't yͤoͯuͥˢᵗ, fͩoͣoͫlⁿ.!̛͒̏͛ͤ͏͚̖̝ͅȂ̧̨͖̩͔̞̖͇̗͓̜̦̙̳ͤͥ͆͐̈́ͦ̚̚͢͢R̢̟̯̘̣̫̣̱̼̰̗̻̗̺͕̼̙ͫ̂͆̔̽̈́̃̈̏̽ͩ͜͞R̴̡̧̛̺͈̬̩̤̤̪̞͍̘̟̤͖ͦͫ̃̈́̍̆ͯͧ̾̋̽ͅǪ̵̨͚̪͓̪̰̯̱̩̳͚̥͈̪̲̩̤̲̰̉̏͆͊͌̈́͌̈ͮ̓ͯͨͩ̀͂ͭͥ̕ͅG̢̛̗͉̪̥̤͍͓̥̩̺̫̐̈́̑͂̊͊̏̅ͤ̓̊̏ͤ́́̓ͤ̉A̸̬̫̥̣̠̥̦̳͔̳̘̮̺͇̖ͣ͌͗̉ͨ̒ͬ͂ͅͅͅŅ͗̓̃͒҉̗̻̠̬͓̯̺͍͈C̴̨̧̘͙̗̫̙͎͓̬͍̻͈̈̓̈ͮ̃̆͂͝Ē̔ͬͪ͌̽ͯ͒͑̿̉̽̔̿͡͏͍̗̺̲̥̥̜̰̤͖̼̰͍͇̥̜̙ ̨̘̰̯̜̭͕̪̯̠͕̻̮͎͆̊͋̂́̄̄̽͗̚͟ͅŏ̓̿̈̈̓̿͐͒͋̔ͩ͆̈́̈́̿͂̄҉̪͚̻̜͍̻̦͟͟͝f̓͐̂͐̀͌ͩ͌̀͊̍ͤͤͯ҉͙̦̤̦̲̙̖̲͖̫̱̠͖̜͙̕ ̨̧̩͙̤̟̼̦̮̤̰͉̗͙̜̥̠̤̪̟̍̈́̋̔͊iͥ̔ͬ̒͗͑ͨ̌̂ͮͣͧ̌̑ͣͫ҉̶̱̘̙̥̲̘͓̜͔̪̰̺͚̟̪. ţ̴̵̢̢͈̗̤̯̻̦̫͇͖̙̗̦ͪ̓̽̓̆͊̑͒ͬ̒ͫͣ̐ͨͅ ̛̖͚̳͖̰̞̙̥̖̪͐͛ͩͯ̈̈́̒͂̚͜͠͞.ͬ͗ͧͫ̎̉ͩ̐͌̋ͨ͡ ̉̎͆ͬͤ̒̋̐ͯ̑̎͊ͥ̊͌ͧ̔͞͏̢̺͈̫̣̳̦͇͇̯͖̳͍̗̘͓̗͕̕ . ̴̭̯̖̫̹̯̙̳̝̺͕͎ͤͥͬ̂̕͟͞ͅM̳̙̬͕͓̙͚͈̥̭͂̈̃̀̾͘̕ą̠̟͚̗͕̹͋͆̃ͣ́͗ͨ͊͘n̵̄̓͗ͬ̀ͧ̐̑͆͏̨̧҉̝͚̥̞̹̘̣͚̰̗̹̯͍̮̖̪̰͈k̶̸̗͎͔̘̙̗̙̬̳͎̳̣͌̿́̅͆ͤͦ̎̑͂̉͘i̧̢͉͖͍̙̗͉̫̝͙̱͙ͫ͗͛͑̆̏̍̉n̷̵͇̖͕̤͎̭̩͈̟̼͙̬̦̞̹̉̊̈́͋̃ͥ̒̽̏̔̊̚̕͜. d̨́̏̆ͭ̔̓ͤͩ͗̾͑͒̌͂̌͐̚҉̶̡̻̲̙͕̳̥͙͖͕ ̶̊ͤ͑́ͪͮ̆ͬ̆̔̀̌̏̾͏̼͇͕͇͍̝̘̙͔̬̙̗̰͕̝̹̯̟͞h̨̜̘̯̱̳͕͙͔͕̿ͣͬ͊̎͢͠a̴̵̛̝̤̟͔̿̆͋̂͛ͪ̃͗ͧ̊̑ͪͩ͐͝ͅ ş̨̞̹̥̭͙̘͕̣̇ͩͭ̈́͠͡ͅ ̷̴̪̣̤͇̪̲̯̘̭̝͉͙̯̖̱̣̫̗̲̓͒ͧͪͯ͢͞ ̷̡̠͈͖̞̣̪̱̩͉͇͐̇̿̄̊ͣ̓̏̎͑̊͠a̶̷̡̯̬̹͈̟͎̻͂̀ͨ̏͋ͫ̌̍̆̇̾ͧ͛͗ͤ͛ͦ̚͢͠

It's almost like waking up from a long dream, when the human senses aren't exactly there yet, the colors bleed of their vibrancy, and the fog in your mind thickness to a soup of abstract and numbness.

But somehow, you are still a puppet without its master. 

You learned not to fight when they use your body if some cheap tool, that's what you are after all, but it's somehow worse when your ringing wars start to pick up sounds. (Screams of mothers as they hold their dead children when the world still _cared--)_

This is shitty. Everything is shitty. And fucked. 

(_Did the Corporations have something to do with this? The Academy? Small-time mobs or the big fish? Where are you?)_

You don't ask questions. 

You are a thin plastic bag full of water and someone just stabbed you. You feel too exhausted when your eyelids start to become heavier, and heavier--

Voices are overlapping, like a broken speaker, but you warily lift your head in a weak effort to try to act like some policeman that you used to be. It's dark, (night?) But the sky is bleeding a red that drags him back to childhood drawings. Buildings are collapsing around the palace, still untouched by the hungry flames. Your eyes focus on the pillar of light, so bright and animated, like yours right now, and if squint you can see--

Sharp, red lights where eyes are supposed to be, your air is caught in the bear trap of your throat as you begin to understand what exactly is happening to you. The creature's form is cloaked and hidden from your view, but you could have sworn that you made eye contact with whatever was that. 

You are beginning to understand that this is not the afterlife. (_Your lungs were punctured and filling up like sponges dropped in oil, as you dragged your broken body to a chair--)_

The men and women around you are in a desperate high, their focus becoming a tunnel vision to surviving this. _Loosing focus gets you killed, you hear? That's how you end up like them_ the old police officer point to the man in the curb, his mask missing with half his jaw. Exposed gums and shattered teeth penetrating the meat of the tongue and his throat.

Your eyes sting, its surprising how easy pain is the first thing you register when you begin to emerge, but they sting and turn red from the unholy time your chest was forced to inhale and exhale from the mere exhaustion the magic was draining you from.

You begin to see around you the collapsed mages and soldiers, some with their heads missing, others with their eyes rolled backwards as their backs arched to the sky with foam in their mouth.

You want to sleep. 

You think you're going to sleep, they'll just lock you up in the tower again, throw away the key and make themselves forget everything again. That doesn't sound like a bad deal to you, personally. Sleeping for eternity does sound temping. And when you bring your chin to your exposed chest, chains be damned, you see from your darkening vision the same creature coming towards you. 

And that creature was death, a pale skelton surrounded by the lights of Heaven and the fires of Hell on his feet. You remember your mother's hand as she taught you to properly pray and offer gifts. You mumble through your constricting muffle a soft prayer to a dead god before closing your eyes.

"SHINTARO ISHIHARA!"

_Eyes up!_ Pupils focused, your hairs standing in attention, your jaw unhinging. What was that? Your name, real name, spoken through the lips of death, adrenaline spilling into your bloodstream, you can feel your toes tingle and you _breathe_\--

You can see it now, death's hand reaching out to you in a heat of desperation as the light around you glows brighter and hotter, until it's blinding the whole universe. 

It's almost like you were showered in gasoline and someone dropped a lit match. 

That voice isn't his, because his voice-- his voice was awkward, yet gentle on the edges with a tired undertone, he was his friend and that isn't his friend. He was his friend, and that isn't his friend. He was his friend, and that isn't his friend. He was his friend, and that isn't his friend. He was his friend, and that isn't his f r i e n d . A n d th

a t i s n't 

his

friend.

"Sᵤzᵤₖᵢ?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I hope we meet again somewhere, huh? Just when and where would that be?" _
> 
>   
If you are curious, the website that I used to make all the fancy text is called yaytext.


	8. Do you still remember me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainz wants to break something, like when he shattered the earth underneath him when he marched to the Empire, when he broke the sky above him when he raised his fist to make dust of bones. 
> 
> And yet when he brings his eyes up, all that fire leaves him when he cannot even help his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, we never got each other's names, did we?
> 
> . . . Now that I think about it, no we never did.
> 
> Well, my name is Shintaro Ishihara. 
> 
> A pleasure to finally meet you, Shintaro Ishihara, my name is Suzuki Satoru. 
> 
> It was an honor playing with you all these years, let's meet at a cafe after this is over, yeah? Get some sleep after this, Momonga, goodnight.
> 
> Yeah, goodbye.
> 
> [User Touch_Me is offline]
> 
> Yeah, let's meet.

He leaned forward, the screen lights poking inside his iris, he groaned in frustration. He didn't want to do this, battling it at each corner, and stalling it upfront as much as he possibly could.

His joints popped when he straightened himself before he started to fidgeted in the VR headset's, gaze bouncing up to the screen in front of him to the door separating him from the rest of the house.

He needs to do this, can't go on with running away from the unenviable, seeing there's no point in dragging this more than necessary. Before he could properly connect to the system, however, a soft knock, sounding like they were briefly considering walking away, was heard behind the wooden door. 

"Shintaro? Darling, we need to talk." 

Her soft voice carried itself under the door and danced into his ears so shamelessly, and he, so hopeless to deny her anything.

He pushed himself out, leaving the chair still on, the screen flickering briefly, as he walked away. He wanted to say goodbye at least. Oh, well maybe he'll send an e-mail apologizing later.

Gravity places its cold hands and his shoulders as his hand extended. He stops cold, so confused about _why._ Why is he stopping? His wife needs him, the marriage itself is calling for him, why does he hesitate? His feet suddenly felt like hard lead, preventing him from any movement.

"Darling? Please, stop using those silly games and come out, we need to talk. _Please_." Her delicate voice sounded too exhausted if it was carrying a hard block of granite in her shoulders, and it cracked and broke under his feet. _That isn't right,_ she doesn't deserve that.

His hand was just hovering there, not moving. Why? 

And just in the corner of his eye, he could see a white wall, pure and clean without any obvious signs of damage. He shivered, a chill of fear ran its fingers through his skeleton spine because it's _not right._

His precious darling daughter, the same one that always cried and fussed whenever she was forced to wear something other than pink, once took and her favorite colors and drew their little family on the right corner of the wall as a "surprise " 

And it's blank. 

Fire blazed through him, sending red-hot blasts into the base of his skull and down his spine. He snorted, his throat collapsing into itself as his head burned with a sort of relentless, all-encompassing fire he'd not known before this very moment. (_You are a painting, a dead man, a god, an object, a human, a father, a husband_\--) He struggled to remember where he was, why he was--

"Shintaro? Shintaro! Open up, what the hell?! _SHINTARO_!" Her relentless beating started to match the beating in his head, the world is dancing in his very eyes and he is so lost on _what to do_-

The muscles in your neck strain and you cry out helplessly as your body shudders violently, throwing yourself into the wooden panels of the floor, not caring for the screeches and crying outside the door. (Your wife is not dead, _your wife is not dead, she is **not **_) You fought like hell, your brain struggling to comprehend and defend. Misfired thoughts slipping through your fingers like shards of glass, shredding your consciousness until your very self started to dissolve into such speculative and single-minded thoughts--

WHO ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

The world still spun (like always), the colors washing away like some movie special effects, taking a finger and blurring everything together into nothing. It is suffocating you, yet for the first time that you could so far remember being _alive_.

Guilt, relief, horror, elation, exhaustion, anger, dismay – they all warred for top billing, mixing and swirling together in a volatile combination that sent your stomach rolling, your head spinning, and heart thudding painfully in your chest. Through it all, the thoughts wouldn't stop roiling, surfacing long enough to steal your breath before disappearing back into the rolling abyss.

_I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home._

Ainz paced in the long hallway, silently pleading with Touch Me as he forced himself not to look at the double, heavy doors and fought to ignore the sounds coming from within. It's logical, he needs to preserve the image for them and himself, logical that he is out here instead of there. The empty hall is still with invisible eyes in the walls, with the anxious servants and low beings waiting at his feet.

(His once fluent, and formal thoughts broke the railways and crashed and burned when he sees the damage and horror done upon his _friend—_)

He is a king here, and yet he is too afraid to go to a simple room, how pathetic of him. The only ones that knew the true extent of Touch's imprisonment was the three-floor guardians that insisted on being there for the slaughter of the so-called empire. It brings some comfort knowing at the image of Touch-me is intact, because he deserves to heal, to have some breathing room after all he has gone through.

(Yet, he was living in luxury and bathing when his friend was being tortured, _experiment on—_) He still paced outside, the green trigger going off and on more times than the whole month combined. He ignores the noises until he doesn't. He doesn't know whether that meant he was getting better or getting worse.

(Didn't he promise a kingdom for his friends? One where all the diverse races can co-live with one another?) 

He sighs, steeling himself as he took charge of the doors. There was no use in delaying the unavoidable. 

When you gasp your first breath of real air, you shudder and like a newborn, clawing at your throat as you struggle to comprehend what is at stake. Then you try to scream, only to find your mute voice, panic-filled you never bother to see what is around you, the claustrophobia stuffing your vision and sinking deep into the betweens of your ribs.

You pushed yourself off the ground on trembling arms. And once you stumbled dangerously to your feet, you collided painfully with the edge of the bar to your feet, deafeningly painful level. You scrambled to clutch your foot with one desperate hand, fingertips digging into his skin- scales? (Those weren't his feet)The tunnel vision soon started to take over like a silent moss you never notice. You couldn't find the door, working your way blindly through the room(?) by the virtue of an outstretched arm. The pounding surrounded you, taking you over and threatening to suffocate you. You think you can still hear your wife behind the doors, screaming your name.

You growled, yelling in frustration, "What do you want?!"

There was no chorus of angels to answer you.

It was the silence after a storm that was always the loudest, that prolonged absence of sound when the world took a deep breath and attempted to right itself. That sort of stillness had a physical presence that pressed in, surrounded, and threatened to drown you with its soundless, deafening, roar. Suffocating you, trying to pull you under

You pushed yourself to take a step, staggering as the room around you flickered, shifting between his room in his mind and a strange room with towering walls and deep colors. You faltered at that, lost some more of your tenuous hold on whatever scraps of sanity you still clenched in your teeth. Something was wrong. _Wasn't there always?_ Your friend from the academy says and you know what isn't right because she is dead, drowned in her blood from her blistered throat. 

Someone was holding your shoulder, it's your wife, she looks_ so sad._ As if you been gone too long and don't know how to break the bad news that had gathered in their doorstep in your absence. The meat of your tongue is heavy, and you drool over yourself as you try to form some kind of words that could be understood. She looks sad, like a lonely angel, so you try to smile, comfort her in some way. It feels strange, feeling your cheeks stretch themselves in some foreign form, exposing your teeth and gums. You don't like it, but you don't hate it either. 

"Shintaro Ishihara, can you hear me?" It's that strange voice that hooks under your skin, drag it out like a struggling fish. It rattles whatever you hold, and you look up to see your wife's skin melt away, leaving a skeleton in her place. A frigid cold swims through your nerves, your fingers becoming croaking wood that struggles to hold the slightest air. 

"I— I can? What—" Tears are finally emerging, nowhere for them to be found when the emperor signed your death-sentenced when they forced you to kneel before him. Tears that sting and clog your throat. A green aurora floats above you, for a quick second before it dissipates, it reminds you of lights in the north from old photographs. They said they once looked beautiful.

"Ishihara, don't panic. You are safe, you are not in danger. Do you remember me?" The voice is too _loud_, it heavy and filling the room, leaving no breathing room for you. You don't know if this is truly death or some fantastical fever dream that you were conjuring up. Does it even matter?

"I think so? Where am I?" Slurred words slip through your numb lips, surprising that you are lucid enough to form clear enough words to try to comprehend what has been happening to you.

"You are in Nazarick, in your old room. You were rescued. Touch-me, do you know how you got here?" The creature's voice took a deep dive into steel, but it mucked in your ears when the word _Nazarick_ stuck like glue. _Nazarick,_ where did you hear that word before? It's at the tip of your tongue.

_(It's a shadow that hangs in your conscious, like its screaming at you with bloody fists and cracked teeth.)_

_BUT YOU ARE STILL CONFUSED. _You want to scream your diaphragm bloody raw, to demand an answer and bring down your fist down in the table. But exhaustion is quickly flooding the areas where anger used to be, causing your thoughts to become slippery, chaotic. Your mind is filled with too many conflicting thoughts, you are sure your skull is about split in half. 

The creature towering over you paused, the clothed that hung from its bones looks so entertaining that to see the physical face of the monster. 

"I think you might know me better by Suzuki Satoru."

Ainz almost impulsively fidgeted when Touch-Me locked his gaze on towards him. Its the first time he has seen his eyes, he realizes, because something horrid happened to make Touch Me look half his avatar and all himself. (He wants to rage, but the fire kills itself every time he thinks of you)

Then Touch's eyes widen, clear and so vivid seen they both entered Nazarick. "—Suzuki Satoru. Suzuki Satoru, is that you?" His voice is weak, a rugged thing. But so extraordinary _alive_.

It's so strange hearing his own name here, it's fitting that its Touch Me that said them so. 

And Ainz smiled, his wary body sagging into itself. He brought his hands to his face and mumbled through the green magic. 

"Yes, it's me. It's been a long time, old friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! They are finally here! I waited so long for this, sorry it took a while to get here. A few more chapters and we can call it quits. If you caught on this, good job, but I wanted to point out that there are techanlly two touches in his mind. "you" refers to touch me in the new world, while "he" when he was still, uh, alive. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, sorry I rushed to get here, things have been a little chaotic.  

> 
> Things to remember during these troubled times; don't be touchy-touchy with strangers or friends alike, don't be panic buying, if you aren't showing symptoms don't be hoarding all the hand sanitizer or masks. Stay safe, and stay healthy.


	9. Praise, oh, for we are the sinners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't move from his spot, rooted in the cracked stone floor, where a broken magic circle laid crooked on the floor. 
> 
> Blood of his creator pooled and seeped into the cracks. 
> 
> He can't stop shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what the author is going to update again. Oh wait--

The barren land in front of him echos of weeping ghosts and drooling buildings. It's so different, where life in Nazarick is a hidden one, but its always there, working behind the stones and under the wood, but so deserted here. It's so strange, walking in the same roads that were set ablaze just hours ago, still lukewarm from the hellfire that engulfed them. 

But, Sebas supposes, its fitting end for such a rotten place. 

The innocents, the ones caught between the jaws of justices and the iron grip of the emperor, were the ones that made his feet slow and set his heart heavy. But it's a justified need, to get to the wretched tower of false magic. He stills sees the aftermath when he closes his eyes, sees the broken doors as they rush into the very top of the tower. ( _Where two supernovas were gravitating towards each other, and in a flash, it was suddenly too quiet._ ) 

Sebas never realized how loud the one-sided battle was until that very moment. 

_(His creator, the Pillar of Justice, and bears righteous in His sword. Shining and just, how did he end up in chains? Dirty and rusted as they dragged across his skin, and his face stared at him—_)

His master took mercy on him and told him he would explain everything once they reached Nazarick, but until then he is to keep quiet of what he saw. (_Red eyes, wide and shaken, with the skeleton hands, just briefly sitting heavy of his shoulders—_)

Being in love must have addled his brain, he muses, because how else could he do this? He is in love with admiration to his Creator and the Lord Ainz, the only Supreme Being that stayed. Love for the first time he opened his eyes and the face of his Creator looked down on him with pride. Love for Him that never once wavered, not even when he left him and Nazarick.

(But then again, it made him wonder how the other Supreme Beings were doing. Why did they leave? Why leave the protection of Nazarick, the true mighty power of all 41 Supreme Beings? What tempted Them? Were they alright?)

It always circles back to Lord Touch Me, with sunken eyes and drawn cheeks. His face, more youthful and somehow looked more like a corpse on foot. ( _deep cuts to his back, cracks along the legs, and Sebas couldn't stop shaking, his legs refusing to move as he kept staring at his Lord, unconscious and bleeding. Who could do this to a Supreme Being?--)_

_NO_. Those are some dangerous thoughts, borderline treachery. Blasphemous. But it still shook him, made it hard to suck air in when he sees behind his eyelids the matted hair and the pale skin of his Lord. 

( if someone could do that to a Supreme Being, what could they do to Nazarick? )

Sebas didn't like that thought very much.

* * *

It felt longer than three hours of mindless patrolling when he finally received the order to come back to Nazarick. Sebas praised his merciful Lord Ainz and quickly teleported to the main office, where he waited to report. He didn't try to fixate on what was lost during the battle, or the presence of another supreme being so close. 

(When they took His Lord back to Nazarick, the weak-minded went into overdrive to try and reconnect to what was once lost. The Guardians themselves almost charged into the room where Lord Touch Me rested, only stopping by Lord Ainz's orders. He can still hear them now, pacing and bitterly working to their bones.)

It didn't take long, Sebas counted 56.890 seconds when the heavy doors busted open with a bang, the long robes flapped wildly surrounding Lord Ainz as he once took one look around the room before giving him a sharp look and a sharper command of "follow."

He followed. And no amount of preparation could distill the shock. 

Seeing His Lord, wrapped in bandages as if to hide the scars of shame, and his resting face, peacefully unaware and so _**vulnerable**_. (It is a scary thought.) But Lord Ainz seems conflicted, but as blasphemous as it sounds, he could at least get a read on what his Lord felt, like a proper Butler of Nazarick. Lord Ainz held his gaze for sharp, before sighing. "I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark for so long." 

"You waste your apologies on someone worthless of them." Sebas bowed his head, a trickle of sweat trailing downwards his spine. His skin was being lit underneath itself, burning away impurities, and demanding answers. He understands that he is too much of a lowly being to comprehend what his Lord is thinking, much less his actions.

(He prays for mercy and light.)

Lord Ainz only hums ominous, before opening a door on the side, once the epiphany was understood, Sebas flinched. This is Lord Touch Me's "game room," an area prohibited and restricted from all Guardians. Only Supreme Beings walked through these doors, and even then, only those few Beings were allowed in.

Sebas bowed and kept his mouth shut.

"Truth be told, I wasn't going to tell anyone of anything until Touch Me has more. . . energy in him. But you are his first and only creation, so you deserve to know before the rest." His chest expanded and it shook to decompress itself again, the fire extending to his lungs, and his trembling hands. (He blames it on old age.)

"I— Thank you, My Lord." 

(Ainz doesn't think he'll be grateful in the next few minutes. He holds his tongue.)

Ainz leans forward, the shift in the atmosphere changed so subtly one wouldn't see it, but it's in the chill in the air, the tremble in the stones, the gravity in the gut and the cotton stuffed into his ears. 

"_Nothing_ leaves the room, spoken or unspoken. That is a direct order. Do you understand?" Sebas counted the breaths he took before he bowed again, his trembling hands taking themselves as punches.

"I understand, My Lord."

"In the beginning, the only reason you see me before you is due to Touch Me's kind spirit. The realms of Yggdrasil were very vicious, especially for someone new." Lord Ainz paused, retreating into a chair, and gesturing to Sebas to take a seat. He hesitated before sitting, the same chair other Supreme Beings sat! He holds himself up.

"Before I continue, tell me something Sebas, what is Yggdrasil to you? What do you know and remember?" 

What is Yggdrasil to you?

_ Begone ages of titans that walked the earth, their fingers tracing the borders of the continents and their swallow breathing causing the ocean's circulation. It's voices spoken above him, strange and incomprehensible, shifting reality, leaving at the whims of children._

_"_Yggdrasil is the Homeworld of the Supreme Beings, where they gathered to compete and rise to the top, my memories are rather hazy from that time, My Lord." The answer fell flat though, the reality is that no matter how much he turns the tables, Sebas remains as ignorant to the Supreme Beings as the day he was sculptured from their hands.

"Yes, and no. You're close though, Yggdrasil was a pocket world, if you may. It was created by Beings like myself, though it took many resources to do so. I joined the world because of my curiously, but the fact remains that Yggdrasil is just. . . not our Homeworld." Lord Ainz folded himself as a higher being should, but an air of solitary entered his mind. 

"Our Homeworld is very chaotic, as one born there doesn't enjoy the same luxury as one would here. We can shift our consciousness for brief periods to pocket worlds like Yggdrasil, but we remain safe, physically in Homeworld." Sebas took the implications in mind and suddenly felt very cold. He couldn't immediately respond, still in a state of ambiguity, trying to make sense of things, _there are worlds out there_, where they couldn't leave. 

Then he remembers the Final Day. 

"My Lord, forgive me, but does that mean. . . that day when you took the throne, you were preparing for the destruction of Yggdrasil?" _Did you leave yourself behind for us? You can leave, however, you wish? Are you going to leave us again?_

"Yes, Yggdrasil is one of the few places I would call home. And such, I'm willing to go out alongside it." Now, Sebas can hear the nostalgia, the touch had a deft calmness about it. His mind was flustered, still steeped in confusion, but he knows his place. He bows his head in gratitude, the moisture in his eyes are stinging. 

"But, does that mean you were preparing to die with us, lowly beings?" Lord Ainz leaned back in contemplation, before shaking his head. 

"Death holds no concept for us, we merely move on to the next pocket world... but it was an honor being in Yggdrasil." Something about such simple words touched a core part of him, he shook, momentary forgetting himself. A tear escaped his watch. 

Lord Ainz gave him the mercy of letting him compose himself. (He sings praises, for sinners like themselves can only beg at the heels of merciful beings)

"Our Homeworld, no matter how far we travel in dimensions, is the only anchor we have. I was supposed to work in the morning after... well, I had responsibilities beyond Yggdrasill. " Lord Ainz shrugged, a green light overcame him, washing away the stress Sebas felt. Like a waterdrop in a desert.

"That's why he left." 

Sebas snapped his neck upwards, to match the gaze of Lord Ainz, the pressure in his chest unfolding before his eyes. And Lord Ainz continued.

"He had a wife, I believe, and a daughter in Homeworld. He had to provide for them rather than spending his time here." It was challenging to make sense of things. He wanted to scream but no sound would come out, perhaps this was something he deserved to feel. He had a wife. And a daughter of blood. It placed them top in priority, but he can't blame him. 

His threat squeezes enough air to mold into words.

"Are they well?"

Lord Ainz titled his head, backing up in his seat as if it would put distance in the actual question.

"I... do not know. We didn't talk about Homeworld very often when we were in Yggdrasil, last I heard they were going through a rough patch, and his daughter was just turning two."

His Lord had a young daughter. A life so precious, Sebas wonders how he can still breathe through the cotton stuffing into his lungs.

"Listen to me, Sebas Tian, creation of Touch Me.

_And he would listen not yet able to respond but strength would leave him, his eyes would remain closed and he would nod._

"Protect him, protect my only friend from anything. . . and anyone, even from myself. Don't let any harm be bestowed on him, not after all he has lost. That is my final say, do you understand?"

_Everything was like a recipe for chaos, and yet in actuality, nothing was happening. It was challenging to make sense of things. _ _His mind was spinning, breathing was heavy and labored, not aware of the surroundings even though that's where he lived._

_But the singularity, the one light, is the reason he still breathes every day. _

_He would protect Him until his last dying breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it took me a while to update this, it's weird because I'm supposed to be finishing this story before the quarantine is over. 
> 
> Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	10. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You talk to a old friend, trying to claw some stability back into your "life", because despite what you want-- to feel safe, and warm because it is home, its Nazarick and its familiar. 
> 
> But the shadows are cold and they are starting to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Today is the last day Yggdrasil's servers will run. Why not stay until the end?"

"Please tell me the gameplan," A plea of desperation, weakly flying to reach the skeleton on the other side of the room. 

( _Somewhere else, this would have signaled the end of a boring obstacle and the beginning of an epic quest. When the halls were filled with people instead of echos_. )

And your friend does. 

He tells you of the living walls of the tomb, irony doesn't escape you and tells you of every NCP that now breathes and talks and _alive_. More alive than half the bastards in Japan, you think. He tells you of never-ending skies, the clearest, and healthy grass and colors that HeroHero would weep over.

You try to imagine this; to think of ripe grass under your palms, blue sky above you, and fresh air running its fingers through your hair. It's difficult to imagine that, and it must show through your face because his tone is sad and emphatic.

He leaves you with your thoughts and tells you if you wish to see the combination of your hopes and ambitions manifested. You say yes, mostly done out the eagerness in his voice and the happy posture as he left.

(Its so _weird_; thinking of NCP as people, no more codes or ones and zeros, and for a moment you feel rather happy that you're this drugged out, rather than going through this sober. You think you're not sober. You aren't sure.)

Your tired eyes follow your bruised knuckles as they brush against the silk robes that draped off your frame, making you look like a proper painting, you muse. And you see shadow hands reaching for you--

It makes you see the cracks in the floor, and suddenly, you're back in the fickle circle, floating with chains wrapped around you. It's not just bloody mouth and shaking hands, its not just stomach aches or dripping sweat or burning with fever, just the unnerving silence that becomes louder and louder.

When you were little you liked to dream about meeting an angel. With their soft white tunic, their soft eyes, their soft molten gold halo, and now, you think you might have seen one before. (You married one, then heaven reached their golden tinted hand, traced her lovely bones.)

Because your traitorous mind likes to riddle your thoughts, you start to wonder what color casket they choose for you. And you can hear the dirge, echoing from the church piano, as an orphan girl wept.

That cold hard thing in your chest is cracking and breaking and warping, and breathing around it just chokes you up.

Your eyes have begun to burn.

You're a (_were, c'mon don't tell me you have forgotten your promise now _) police officer, a keeper of the law, but you allow yourself this, just this, allows to take three deep breaths in the privacy of this foreign room, allow yourself to try and commit your family’s faces to memory, the way their mouths tilted when they smiled, the way Yuna twirled her dolls with her under the bed, the way her mother looked when she tried to cook for the first time, the way your mother had preened when you let her cut your hair for the first time, a little rebellion that you did out of spite.

Your tired and bruised and sore, and there is nothing helpful about codes of black and white, that not too long ago you cannot touch or hear.

You wish you could have said goodbye, though. Wish you could have changed your last words, (_what did you even say to her last time? Goodnight, have a nice dream?_) made them more meaningful, somehow, or given your daughter one last hug, or told a joke that made her laugh so you could carve it into your bones and remember the sound always.

You wish for a lot of things.

There's a knock in the door.

It echos through your ringing ears, it bleeds into your thoughts and you croak, "Come in."

Your face is staring at you. A human face, your eyebrows still detaining their shape, to the curve of your mouth, to the eyelids, and the colors of your eyes. His eyes. But it's weathered through time, his hair bleached of color and now a white snow hair, still full and healthy. 

You didn't realize your staring until Momonga coughs, you didn't even see him enter, leaving you wondering how much of the world you're tuning out in your thoughts.

You smile out of reflex. 

"Hello there Sebas, it's been a while." You think back— back to a bygone era when your wife would scold you for having to spend too many hours strapped to the chair while you and your friends raided a mob or conquered new quests. 

Your eyes are burning. And his too, and he bows so deeply, his forehead is touching his knees. You try to dislodge the ball of nerves in your throat, but it comes out as a breathless sigh. 

"I think I'll leave you both to talk," You shoot him an alarmed glare, the audacity to leave his defenseless friend alone—but he dips his skull (?) In encouragement before stepping out. 

You breathe. And count the seconds. 

"Tell me Sebas, how has Momo been treating you?" You ask to fill the air, the saltiness of your lips stinging your tongue as you roll over them. 

"He's a merciful lord and benevolent ruler. Kind and loyal to Nazarick," _Unlike you_, went unsaid. (Maybe you filled it in, but Sebas looks so broken right now) Momonga did say that NCP is real now. Did they feel the same abandonment you felt when your father died? When your mother crazed herself in a frenzy? 

"I'm glad. It must have been hard, working like this for so long. Sorry I left. Unfinished business." Sebas, as the forever servant, kept his posture righteous, but his eyes watered and wained. 

He shifts his footing, and you scratched at your skin(?) To relieve some stress, it's so awkward, speaking to someone while they're standing and you're sitting. With perfectly good chairs around you. 

"There's nothing for you to apologize over, my Lord. Your mere presence soothes my weary soul," _Wow, that a lot to unpack_, your colleague says, her heavy tongue sticking out as her tinted blue skin show the contrast blood as she chokes and chokes and _chokes_.

!

You snap yourself out of that. _She's dead, son, what got you so rattled up?_ The chief takes a cold look at you, up and down, and you twitch from the burning sensation in your throat.

"I mean it. I would have loved to stay and see what Momo has been up to all these years. . . But real life always catches up to you." Your voice sounds so meek and strained when you think back to the booming, overwhelming voice that Ainz took over. Just your luck.

Sebas takes a noticeable small step forward.

"If I may be so precarious my lord, did you perhaps have some greater responsibility outside of Nazarick?" 

Greater responsibility, huh. Your mother would straighten her hair while she spoke about life lessons. You can still catch the small whiff of perfume as she delicately sprayed her neck, looking at you through her reflection.

_Family comes first, never walk out of something like a family. Do you understand, Shintaro?_

"Yes... I did. I got hitched before I even left, you know? My wife got pregnant and she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She's. . . Lost. Outside. I can't-- can't even see her now. Not in the state that I am." As a creature of myth, no longer human. Stuck in some world that they can't even _leave_. 

Does time work differently here? If five years passed here, would five seconds, five decades pass there? 

Sebas's voice drops the silence.

"I'm sorry my Lord, for even asking a Supreme—" He sounds so shaken, his trembling figure mirroring his voice.

"No, no. It's alright, needed that. Its been a while since I talked to someone about it. My wife has been dead for a couple of years, anyway. It was just. . . Hard." You try to wave away the problems if they were physically manifested, and you can't exactly lie. 

When was the last time you talked to someone about this? Work, it's dangerous to spill too much information on the invisible governing line that can't be crossed. And the Guild was a getaway from said problems to begin with. 

A buried blurred image flows into your thoughts and quickly dissipates. You smile crookedly, tainted with bitterness.

"Did you know, that if we were to have a boy, he would have been named Sebastian?" 

And Seba reacts physically, drawing away from you as if you suddenly sprouted four heads, and falling to his knees, if they were sucked from all their energy, and fallen limp.

Tears freely flowed from his downcast eyes. You take pity, as it was freaky seeing your old face having such expression. 

You take a spot next to him on the floor, colder than what you thought, but you wave it off like his concerned face when you place yourself comfortable.

And you talk.

"She would always obsess over baby names, and when Yuna was finally born, no matter what name, she would always outshine everything. She learned how to talk at three! My baby is a genius! She would crawl around the house, always looking for trouble. . . She is— was. " 

You really should shut up, instead of destroying what little self-image Sebas has of you, babbling on and on about some stranger to him. But he looks rather touched then indifferent.

"I miss my child. My baby angel. Sebas, if I were to ever have the opportunity, do you think she would be able to forgive me?" You look down at your hand. Skin fused with the armor of an ant, almost an insect, just below your torso is an alien body that you somehow have control over. 

No, she wouldn't recognize you. 

"Forgive my ignorance, but even though I know very little of your child, I know that you defiantly love her. And, most likely will, she knows that." Such a perfect answer, befitting of the perfect butler. 

You stay quiet, breathing, and cycling the air, just enjoying having another real body presence near you. You can't help but think about Yuna, wondering if at least an aunt on your mother's side would take pity. 

— _shrunk small and crushed flat, left to grow for the world to see, mangled body of her father, the smell thick and the gore sickening_—

You haven't even acknowledged the world around you when a warm hands rest above your now trembling one. You don't turn your head, but you turn as if to hide the tears flowing down. 

(You're thankful for the silence.)

He is right here, and his hand is warm in yours, and he squeezes your fingers and breathes and breathes and breathes.

* * *

The Throne Room hasn't been this filled with life, brimming with activity and hushed, awed tones, since the failed siege. 

A sharp command, spit in a frenzy, froze all activities for the special announcement regarding the Supreme Beings and the New World. And those with ears and eyes can see the almost manifestation of the tension Lord Ainz carried on His shoulders since the destruction of the false nation.

And they can catch the barest whiff of power that creeps so silently on the 9th floor, its halls restricted to the barebones, with no one, not even the High Floor Guardians, being permitted to even _look_ at its direction. 

Its also, where currently Lord Touch Me resides. 

After the short-lived battle, and the joyous slaughters, no one caught a glimpse of the Supreme Being, some said that was tricked and impressed by some foolish mortal. Others say he's here to collect His creation and leave once more. Others don't talk about it. It was noticeable in the change of taste in the air, electric with a newfound life that filled its missing shoes. Like an old friend that has been gone for far too long, filling the gap just a little. 

But it still left a cold, uncertain, ball in the stomach of many, radically now, cramped to the brim with many high ranking to the lowest of maids, just enough to hear the news. The floor Guardians stood up in front of the crowd, talking amongst themselves when the fire suddenly sparked in life. Roaring in blues instead of the ambers and reds, as the banners glowed blue above them.

And Lord Ainz appeared from the portal, manifesting in front of the Throne of Kings. A hushed silence befell the hall, bowing until reaching the floor in respect.

And then—

"I am sure many of you are still confused as to why I have called you here at such a time, especially one done boldly out of haste. However, this announcement is of crucial importance to everyone gathered here today."

The cutthroat silence in his pause has pleased Momonga enough for him to raise the staff above and cast magic that's swelling with power, yet done with the flick of His wrist.

"[**Perfect Image**]"

The banner above them, with the emblem of one of the Supreme Beings, Touch Me, shined above the rest. And in its shine, did Ainz talked again, this time his tone softer, more nostalgic.

"As you should already know, the Great Tomb of Nazarick was, by means unknown, transported to this mysterious, new world. "

"The world of Helheim has been torn from our grasp and thrust into the unknown, and yet we did not waver under the storm, and for that, I'm thankful for everyone that is gathered here. And I'm here to set the record straight, so to speak. You will spread this, and you will swear your life to it," The creatures shook with a fever that lit under their heels, bowing under His gaze.

The lights around the banners burst into brightly glowing light that seemed to eat away at the shadows

"And yet, after all of our hardships, we have been blessed. A misfortune turn miracle, as one of my comrades— one of the forty-one Supreme Beings has clawed his way from his chains of Responsibility and has risen far and beyond. And I'm sure you know who I'm talking about."

Trembling, did the creatures knew who He was talking about. So are the fabled rumors true? Has Lord Touch-Me truly returned? (Is He leaving again?)

Momonga held his arms out, the room elevating as a spark of magic manifested at his side.

"_Rejoice_, Nazarick! _Rejoice_, for we have accomplished the impossible!"

And the spark turns to a roaring portal, sitting reality to accommodate the being coming from within. And there He stepped, with a helm and a chest piece, with a glittering sapphire embedded in the middle over the sternum, forged with fire and anointed by holy ash. Radiating with pure and divine light. Adorned with your crimson-red cape with gold accents, royal and high above those unworthy —

"Nazarick will not fall under this weight, we will regain what was lost! We will reclaim what is rightfully ours!"

The Supreme Being fully emerges, cries of shock and awe, licking the air brimming with the mere presence of another, in oh so long. 

"—No matter the seas! No matter the mountains! We will break our teeth clawing to restore the full might of Ainz Ooal Gown if we must! To rise to unprecedented heights!"

And the light, unnaturally bent under reality, as it focused on the Supreme Being, radiating a divine glow. He stood next to Lord Ainz, nodding in greeting. 

"—My friends! My comrades that have been lost among the Nine Worlds! We will find them! No matter how long it may take!"

Momonga pauses. The echoes of his booming announcement echoed through the bonemarrow of the maids and pierced the souls through the warrior's eyes. Calmly watching as his words reached everyone's ears, he slowly released his unknowing fist…

"**Swear on this! There were once Forty-One Supreme Beings that dwelled in this Tomb, and there shall be once more!"**

And Nazarick _roared_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. The final chapter. I'm going to make a sequel, to expand the horizons and all that jazz. So don't worry if this seems a bit rushed, or too sudden, and make sure to keep an eye out for the sequel. Gosh, this is one of the few stories I have started and actually finished. Go me! I'm also thinking about how other players would react to being in the New World, like Ulbert or Luci*fer. That'll be a fucken blast, eh?
> 
> Also, a small nugget of information, that Sebas is just following orders from Ainz, so that's why he's playing dumb.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me until the end!~

**Author's Note:**

> I truly do hope that I do justice to this piece. And hopefully not abandon it while still writing. :P


End file.
